Roscoe nodded grimly. “And that puts an entirely different light on things—especially on what needs to happen with him.”
A glass of water and some smelling salts had arrived, along with several burnt feathers, and the aunt’s hysterics were gradually abating. Roscoe finally dragged his gaze from Miranda; she was moving without any detectable stiffness and was alert and focused. A weight lifted from his chest. He looked at Roderick. “What did you tell your staff?”
Leaving Lucius Clifford gagged with his own cravat and with his hands trussed behind him, Mudd and Rawlins stepped back, taking up positions by the wall nearby and doing their best to become invisible. For such large men, they were very good at that; they’d had plenty of practice.
Roderick was still staring at Lucius Clifford. “I told them the pistol going off was an accident—which in some respects it was.” With the toe of one boot, he nudged Lucius Clifford’s shoulder. “But this . . .” His jaw firmed. “Obviously we’ll need to summon the constables—”
“No.”
Lifting his head, Roderick blinked at him. “No?” He was incredulous. “But . . .” Roderick glanced at Miranda, then, face flushing with anger, he lowered his voice. “He attacked Miranda.”
“Yes. I know.” Roscoe glanced again at the evidence of that—at her badly crushed skirts, at the many tendrils of hair that had come loose from her chignon, itself askew. Once again he quashed the lethal urge the sight provoked. “That’s precisely why we have to act to ensure that Lucius Clifford does no further harm to her, or to the rest of your family. That he and his machinations pose no further threat to them.”
Roderick frowned. “I don’t follow—how is he still a threat? How can he hurt us further?”
“Because of the scandal.” The other sounds in the room had ceased. Roscoe looked across and saw that the aunt had recovered. She was still breathing shallowly, but together with Miranda and Sarah, she was now listening to his and Roderick’s conversation.
And staring uncomprehendingly at him, whom she’d never met.
He inclined his head to her. “Ma’am.” He glanced at Miranda, then Roderick, then looked back at their aunt. “If you’ll permit me to explain, perhaps we can decide how best to deal with this situation.”
The old lady stared at him, then waved weakly. “If you can help us get clear of this without any scandal, then by all means, sir.”
He looked down at the man at his feet, who was finally stirring. “From what we’ve pieced together, Lucius Clifford was in an infantry troop that took heavy casualties on the field at Waterloo. Many were killed. Several deserted. Lucius deserted, too, but before he did he planted his diary and his watch on a fallen comrade and took that man’s name—John Kirkwell. So Kirkwell was thought to be the deserter, while Lucius Clifford was pronounced dead. At some point, and we don’t think it was recently, Lucius returned to England.”
Roscoe glanced at Roderick. “For obvious reasons, he didn’t contact his family, all of whom believed him dead. To resume his identity with people who knew him would have risked identifying himself as a deserter, and everyone knows what the army does with deserters. Whenever he wished to, he used Kirkwell’s name, but otherwise simply avoided anyone who’d previously known him. However, Lucius presumably took due note of his father’s death two years ago. Sometime after that he realized that if inheritance was passed strictly through the male line, then if you died, he, now your nearest male blood relative, stood to inherit at least some of your wealth. While your will would presumably leave most of your fortune to Miranda, any wily solicitor would have informed Lucius that he stood a reasonable chance of being able to claim at least a portion of your estate on the grounds that your wealth stems from your grandfather, and therefore, in the event of you dying without a male heir, your grandfather’s brother—Lucius’s grandfather—could have pressed for a portion of what was originally your grandfather’s estate.
“I’m informed that such a case would be messy, with the outcome depending on the language used in various wills, and even more on the prejudice of the judge rather than on the relative merits of any legal arguments—and strong arguments might be made either way, to grant Lucius a part of your estate, or not. Regardless, to Lucius, penniless as he was, the chance was worth taking. But, of course, before he could mount any legal challenge to your will, you had to die.”
Roderick, his gaze again on Lucius, shook his head. “On the chance that he might be able to claim a portion of my fortune, he set out to kill me.” He made a disgusted sound. “That’s why he hired Kempsey and Dole, and sent them to murder me.”
Roscoe nodded. “But when that didn’t go as planned—”
“When you stepped in and saved me.”
“When Miranda and I stepped in and saved you, after that, Lucius pulled back and regrouped. Rethought.”
“He said something before,” Miranda put in, “about hearing that Roderick was giving the bulk of his fortune to charity.”
“What?” Miranda’s aunt looked from her to Roderick. “I thought he was touched, but what’s this? Giving away your funds?”
“Not that much.” Roderick waved the point aside. “But clearly Lucius thought it was more.”
“Ah.” Roscoe nodded. “That makes sense. He thought you were about to give away a lot of your wealth, so he felt impelled to act—first with Kempsey and Dole, and then, when that scheme went awry, to come at you again, but from a different angle.”
“Through me.” Miranda looked coldly at Lucius, who was almost certainly conscious now and listening. “And for that I’ll never forgive him.”
“In deciding how best to deal with your cousin,” Roscoe smoothly went on, “it might help to catalog his crimes. Today, he attacked Miranda, but Roderick and the rest of you foiled him in that. Subsequently, he attempted to extort money from Roderick at pistol-point—”
“But you foiled that,” Roderick said.
“Yes. And prior to that, he attempted to kill you by hiring Kempsey and Dole to do away with you, but Miranda and I foiled that.” Looking down at Lucius, Roscoe observed, “Through all those attempts, beyond Roderick’s injuries and Miranda’s nerves, his actions haven’t caused any real damage. No lasting damage. But that leaves us with his most serious and heinous crime. Desertion in the face of the enemy. The authorities view it as one of the greatest crimes, with good reason. In his case, however, he compounded his villainy by leaving another man, and that man’s family, to bear the ignominy of his desertion. Although he switched identities purely to evade capture, in doing so he saved the Cliffords from the scandal of having a deserter in the family.”
“Oh, my heavens!” Gladys raised a hand to her bosom.
“No palpitations,” Miranda warned. “We don’t have time for them.”
Gladys blinked, then looked at Roscoe as if expecting him to rescue her from impending distress.
As if taking up the challenge, he responded, “At this moment in time, Lucius Clifford is ours to dispose of as we deem fit. We need to consider what will happen if we hand him over to the constables, and weigh that against what will transpire if we hand him over to the army instead.”
“Can we do that?” Roderick asked. “Hand him directly to the army?”
Roscoe nodded. “I can arrange it, yes.”
Miranda drew breath, forced her mind to function. “If we hand him to the constables, we’ll have to press charges, won’t we?” She looked at Roscoe.
“Yes. And in order to prosecute the case, you and Roderick will need to appear in public court, and the earlier attempt on Roderick’s life will need to be explained, too, and all the details of how that played out, with Kempsey’s and Dole’s testimonies and those of all others involved, and in the end, because any such case will inevitably attract the attention of the entire ton, let alone the news sheets, the fact of Clifford’s desertion will come out, along with his use of Kirkwell’s identity, and that will cause a scandal of quite stunning proportions. It will be the sort of trial that
’s remembered and talked of for years.”
“No.” Gladys’s voice rang with adamantine refusal. “I will not countenance that.” Her face set in belligerent lines, she looked at Miranda, then Roderick. “View it as you may—and Lord knows, I’m not a Clifford—but even I will say: don’t do it. You cannot possibly wish to blacken your family’s name.” She looked down at Lucius Clifford, immobilized on the ground. “You cannot wish to allow that blackguard to take the entire family down with him.”
“I agree.” Roscoe inclined his head to Gladys. “To my mind, there’s no sense in going down that road. Admittedly, Clifford will be found guilty and hanged, but all that will be achieved by giving him a public trial will be to cause irreparable damage and irretrievable harm to the Clifford family, to all its branches. As we all know, society will not differentiate. You’ll all be tarred with his brush.”
Miranda and Roderick exchanged a long glance; for the first time, she sensed her own violent sibling protectiveness reflected back at her. But it wasn’t just the two of them involved. It wasn’t even only Cliffords involved. There was Sarah, and the dowager, the duchess, Henry, and above all Roscoe himself; he hadn’t mentioned himself or his family, but in any court hearing he, too, would be called, would have to front the galleries, and put his carefully guarded identity, and therefore his family’s name and reputation, at risk.
Which would result in the scandal to end all scandals.
Drawing breath, she looked at Roscoe. “What will happen if we hand him to the army?”
At their feet, Lucius Clifford writhed, futilely testing his bonds.
His gaze on their captive, Roscoe replied, “I know several people in positions of power. I understand the army will be very glad to lay their hands on one of the last deserters to have escaped justice. I believe that, in return for his family surrendering him to them, the army will be perfectly prepared to deal with him through their own courts and in their own ways—all of which can be done out of the public eye.” He paused, then said, “The army will inform Kirkwell’s family that he was listed as a deserter in error, that instead he died serving his country, and suitable reparation will be made to the Kirkwells to right the wrong done Kirkwell’s memory and his family’s standing. So that aspect of Lucius Clifford’s wrongdoing will be righted as well as it can be. As for Lucius Clifford, once he’s in the army’s hands, I seriously doubt we’ll hear anything more of him.”
For several moments, Roscoe, Roderick, and Miranda stood looking down at Lucius Clifford, lying bound, gagged, and helpless at their feet.
Then Miranda drew breath and nodded. “We’ll hand him to the army.” She sounded like a judge handing down a sentence.
No one demurred.
Roderick shook himself, then asked, “How?”
Roscoe took charge. He gave orders for Lucius to be taken to his house and held in the cellar there until the army had been notified and came to fetch him. Mudd and Rawlins hefted Lucius to his feet; desperate, he tried to kick, so they tied his ankles as well, then between them lugged him out of the morning room, across the terrace, and set off over the lawn toward the side gate.
With Roscoe, Miranda went out onto the terrace. Roderick hobbled after them. They were watching the small procession—the two men Roscoe had had watching the house had been summoned to assist Mudd and Rawlins—when a startled gasp from above, followed by a wail and an exclamation, drew their eyes to an attic window high above.
Three maids—Milly, the housemaid, Ginger, and the scullery maid—were hanging out of the window, pointing and exclaiming. Milly and the scullery maid were doing the exclaiming, while Ginger looked stricken.
Roderick stepped to the edge of the terrace and turned to look up. “Here, you three—what is it?”
Ten minutes and a great deal of reassuring later, and they’d discovered how Lucius had learned about Roderick’s plans to “give away his fortune.” Lucius had taken to walking out with Ginger over the course of several months. He’d been planning and plotting for at least that long.
Miranda shook her head but patted Ginger’s shoulder. “Let this be a lesson to you all—don’t trust gentlemen who seem to be too good to be true. They’re all but guaranteed to be villains. But how did you learn about Mr. Roderick’s plans?”
The maids looked sheepish, but Milly admitted, “We all hear things, miss. Bits and pieces, never all that much—and then there’s the things Mr. Roderick asks Hughes for, or about, the pieces in the news sheets that Mr. Roderick likes to read. The philly-stuff. When we put it all together, well, it seemed as plain as pie.” Milly looked at Roderick. “We’ve been expecting to hear you’ll be closing up the house any day.”
“Yes, well.” Looking faintly stunned, Roderick blew out a breath. “I expect we should reassure everyone that I’m not doing anything so daft as giving away my fortune. Just using a bit of it for schools, and that sort of thing. Nothing to get anxious over. I certainly don’t plan on shutting up this house.”
“Oh.” Milly brightened. “Them below stairs will be so pleased to hear that, sir.”
With Roderick’s blessing, the maids were dispatched to spread the good news.
Roderick exchanged a look with both Miranda and Sarah.
From the armchair, Gladys narrowed her eyes at him. “Remind me to ask Milly next time I want to know what you’re about.” Gladys tipped up her chin. “Seems the staff know more than I do.”
Roderick looked at Gladys; Miranda wondered what he would say. Then he smiled. “It’s really of no importance, Aunt. It’s just an interest I have.”
Gladys humphed. Her gaze shifted to Roscoe. “I’m afraid, sir, that I don’t know you, and no one has thought to introduce us.”
Roscoe smiled what Miranda imagined was a Lord Julian smile, one of easy, effortless, truly graceful charm. He took Gladys’s hand and bowed over it. “I’m Neville Roscoe, ma’am. I live nearby.”
Gladys nodded. “Ah, yes—you’re the gambling king. You live in the big white house on Chichester Street.” When both Miranda and Roderick blinked in surprise, Gladys sniffed. “I do talk to Mrs. Flannery, you know.”
Miranda was left wondering what else her aunt had heard.
Gladys, however, nodded with gracious approval at Roscoe. “Regardless, I have to thank you, Mr. Roscoe, for all your help today. And as it’s already time for luncheon, and after all that effort and drama I daresay we’re all ravenous, I would take it very kindly if you would join us at table.”
Roscoe glanced at Miranda, saw her stunned surprise. He looked back at Gladys, then inclined his head. “Thank you, ma’am. I’d be delighted.”
He shouldn’t accept; there was no hope of any future between him and Miranda, and with Roderick’s would-be killer laid by the heels, no longer any reason to continue any degree of association, but he wanted, for the last time, for just a few more hours, to bask in the warmth of Miranda’s presence, in the delight of her company, in the joy of her smiles.
Chapter Twenty-two
Roscoe sent word to Wolverstone House. At six o’clock, the Duke of Wolverstone, together with his guests for the evening, Christian Allardyce, Marquess of Dearne, and Rafe Carstairs, arrived in Chichester Street. Rundle conducted them to the library, where Roscoe and Roderick waited.
Roscoe performed the introductions. Once they were all seated and supplied with glasses of the very best cognac, he explained all he and Roderick now knew of Lucius Clifford and his military service. He said nothing about the attempt on Roderick’s life, or Lucius’s subsequent interest in Miranda.
At the end of his recitation, Wolverstone fixed him with a faintly questioning look. “And how, pray tell, did you stumble on Clifford’s secret?”
Roscoe had anticipated the question. “Roderick and I were pursuing Kirkwell on another matter entirely, and through that stumbled on his true identity.”
Wolverstone shifted his dark gaze to Roderick. “You’re related to the man. Are you here to plead for leniency?”
“Oh?” Wolverstone sipped. “How so?”
Roscoe watched with approval as Roderick paused to order his thoughts, always a sound idea when it was Wolverstone with whom one was conversing.
“I’m here representing the family’s interests. Although the relationship isn’t close, we—my sister and I—have known Lucius and his immediate family, our cousins, all our lives. Lucius has been dead to us all since Waterloo. There’s no more grieving to be done on that score. At present, none of the family other than my sister and I know that Lucius survived, or that he was a deserter. His mother is still alive, and he has three sisters, all married with children.” Roderick met Wolverstone’s gaze. “The area in which they live, around Macclesfield, is country and very parochial. Any whisper of Lucius’s infamy, and his family—totally innocent of any crime though they are—will assuredly suffer.” Roderick paused, then glanced at Allardyce and Rafe, before returning his gaze to Wolverstone. “Gentlemen, if there is any way to deal appropriately with Lucius while shielding his unsuspecting family from harm, then if at all possible I would urge that that course be adopted.”
“Ah.” Wolverstone’s lips curved approvingly. “In that case . . .” He cast a glance at Allardyce, who nodded, then cocked a brow at Rafe, who nodded even more definitely. Smiling faintly, Wolverstone looked again at Roderick. “I believe we can arrange to have Lucius Clifford appropriately dealt with in camera.” Wolverstone turned to Rafe. “You’re acquainted with the current head of the army, aren’t you?”
Rafe nodded. “He’s an old friend. I’ll take a detour via the barracks on the way to your house.” Rafe looked at Roscoe. “If you’ll lend me a few of your men, I’ll take our prisoner with me—best we deliver him to the barracks as soon as possible and set the process in motion.”
“Indeed.” Wolverstone’s expression grew cynical. “And just to be sure there are no sudden impulses to bruit abroad the story of the capture of a lingering deserter in pursuit of some glimmer of political glory, I’ll have a word with the minister tomorrow, just to indicate my interest and impress on him the desirability of keeping the entire sorry tale out of the public’s gaze.”
The Lady Risks All Page 44
