The Lady Risks All

by Stephanie Laurens

  Hand in hand they left the library, walked back to the front hall, and climbed the stairs.

  He led her to his room, drew her inside. Drew her into his arms.

  She’d been in his room before, but she hadn’t, then, felt the same sense of coming home, of having reached the end of her journey. Of belonging.

  As they came together in joy and in love, in passion and blatantly acknowledged desire, she knew to the deepest depths of her soul that she’d been right.

  She tipped her head back, fingers threading through the dark silk of his hair as he pressed a hot, openmouthed kiss to the spot where her pulse thundered. “We’ll make this work.” A whispered promise. “There’ll be hurdles, I know, but together we’ll overcome them.”

  His hands closed about her breasts, evocatively kneaded. “Together we can triumph over anything fate sends us”—he raised his head, met her eyes—“just as long as you love me as I love you.”

  From beneath her heavy lids, she held his gaze. “Forever and always.”

  She drew his head down, raised her lips and kissed him—and let their love have its way.

  Let it lead them like a beacon, shining and true, through the heated moments, through the passionate fire. Let the flames of desire claim them anew, let ecstasy rive them so the glory, love’s benediction, could pour in and forge them anew, into an irrevocable one.

  When at last she lay in his arms, sated and blissfully exhausted in his bed, when he settled his head on his pillow and felt her cheek on his breast, her hair spread in silken glory over his chest, he could barely believe that, truly, he had this.

  That, despite all, he was going to get a chance at a wife, a home, a family of his own. That he was going to get to roll the dice in a game he’d thought forever denied him.

  Desire and hope welled in his chest, swelling so high he closed his eyes against the tide of sudden weakness, the unexpected, unprecedented, soul-shattering joy.

  She was giving him her life, her future, in order to create his.

  In doing so she brought him, figuratively and in every way that mattered, to his knees. He would worship her until the day he died.

  Lifting one hand, he stroked her hair. “Thank you.”

  He felt her lips curve against his skin. “I have every intention of making the rest of our lives my pleasure.”

  Epilogue

  September 1824

  “Just a moment.” Miranda rose slowly from her chair at the side of Roscoe’s desk, waving at both Roscoe and Jordan to remain seated. “I have a report from the school that should clarify those costs. Just wait while I fetch it.”

  Roscoe forced himself to remain in his chair as, one hand absentmindedly pressed to the small of her back, his very pregnant wife shuffled at her best pace through the door they’d opened up between his study and the room beyond. That room had become her office. Over the past eight months, she’d gradually filched the reins for the various schools and orphanages he funded from his hands; she now managed them and kept a much sharper eye on what went on there than he could ever hope to do.

  Once the people involved got over the shock that a lady such as she was indeed his wife—it seemed that figured as an even bigger shock than he himself was—they inevitably ended confiding in her, revealing all sorts of things while answering questions that drew them out, yet also left them feeling engaged and appreciated.

  She had a knack; he wasn’t sure she’d even been aware of it, not until she’d flung herself so unrestrainedly into his life.

  He could hear her shuffling papers in the other room. He and Jordan traded glances; both smiled and waited patiently. At the other end of the room, facing each other on the sofas, Mudd and Rawlins were amusing themselves playing a game of cards.

  All in all, he reflected, all was well in his world.

  It was a very nice feeling. He couldn’t think of anything he would change.

  The formalities of their marriage had been something of a hurdle. His solicitors, Roderick’s solicitors, and Jordan had spent days working out exactly how to manage the reality of who he was, who Miranda would be on her marriage to him, and how any children would be legally accounted for; in the end, he’d been forced to accept that Lord Julian Roscoe Neville Delbraith would have to reappear at least long enough to front the altar.

  So Miranda was now formally Lady Delbraith; everyone in his household and businesses referred to her as “my lady” or “your lady,” neatly sidestepping the issue of which lady she actually was.

  The wedding itself would have been a massive hurdle, but the arrangements had been taken, firmly, out of his hands. They’d ended being married in a private ceremony in the chapel at Ridgware, with his mother and Caroline weeping copiously, and even his three sisters all teary-eyed. At least his wife hadn’t been; she’d been radiant. But most surprising to him had been the number of onlookers who had traveled to the house on the day. The chapel had been packed to the rafters with people from the estate, from the various estate-associated businesses, and a large contingent of his London staff.

  Aside from those he saw daily, he hadn’t thought they’d be interested and hadn’t invited them, but someone had. And they’d come. The wedding breakfast held in the great ballroom had been a gargantuan affair at which everyone had mingled—even Gladys, which had amazed even him.

  In the wake of the wars, little by little society truly was changing.

  They’d been married just before Christmas, and this coming Christmas, they would have even more to celebrate.

  Miranda waddled back into the room, frowning at the sheet of paper she held in one hand. Her hair, thick and lustrous, had started to escape its chignon, strands tugged free due to the pencils she’d taken to carrying tucked behind her ears, a habit she’d copied from Jordan.

  “This is it.” Miranda handed the paper to Jordan. “I think you’ll find those charges are due to the new drainage system the county introduced.”

  “Ah, yes.” Jordan frowned. “We’ll need to make adjustments.”

  Settling back into her chair, Miranda felt a small limb flex, then stretch; putting her hand on her hugely distended stomach, she waited, and sure enough the baby pressed his—or her—small foot firmly into her palm. She grinned, glanced at Roscoe, and saw him smiling back. They were both so eager to meet their child; just a few more weeks, and he—or she—would be there.

  And then they would be a family.

  She blinked rapidly.

  Roscoe, bless him, noticed, and engaged Jordan with a question about the other costs they were considering incurring as part of their latest project. Her husband had allowed her free rein with such ventures, and he’d also allowed her to learn about his gambling businesses, his clubs, and the hells and dens. She only visited the clubs, and even then only with him and his bodyguards, but she’d quickly seen the possibility of improving the lot of the large number of women who worked in those houses. When she’d suggested a certain merging of interests—the clubs and some new philanthropy projects—Roscoe had blinked, but he’d thought, and then agreed.

  Her life, truly, could not be more purposeful. More complete.

  There were moments she was so happy she was reduced to tears. Silly, but there it was.

  Regaining her composure, she settled the heavy weight of the baby more comfortably, then leaned forward and rejoined the discussion.

  Rundle appeared with the tea tray, as he inevitably did at what he considered an appropriate hour. “Where would you like this, my lady?”

  Frowning at another receipt, without looking up, she waved down the room. “Thank you, Rundle—just set it down there. Mudd, would you pour?”

  “Yes, m’lady.”

  Roscoe bit his lip and avoided Jordan’s eye. Both Mudd and Rawlins had become Miranda’s devoted slaves; she only had to ask and they leapt to perform even the most unexpected tasks, like handing around the delicate teacups. But the pair watched over his wife as if she was porcelain, something she bore with from them, b
ut which she frowned at if he tried. For that, he was infinitely grateful. Both Mudd and Rawlins were experienced fathers and had taken to giving him hints on how to manage, some of which had, he had to admit, proved useful. He might have rubbed her back, but he would never have thought to rub her feet, but she had indeed been very appreciative.

  Jordan, too, approved of Miranda; he’d confided to him that she had a practical bent that in Jordan’s view they both lacked. Jordan considered her a valuable addition to their team and had taken to treating her much like an older sister, a level of connection she in turn relished—it gave her an opening to inquire into Jordan’s private life, and to make suggestions.

  That interaction had afforded him countless hours of amused entertainment.

  Mudd and Rawlins arrived with the teacups, and they all paused to sip.

  He glanced around the faces, thought of the others not present—of the family he was now much more involved with on a daily basis.

  Edwina’s wedding had gone off without a hitch, and Sarah and Roderick had got engaged in April and would marry next year. Henry was at Oxford, getting into all the expected larks, but with a surprising degree of moderation. Even more amazing, Caroline was bearing up well; one of Miranda’s suggestions, that whenever Henry felt the urge to gamble he should drop down to London and spend a few days in Chichester Street, playing against Roscoe, had greatly eased Caroline’s mind. As Henry inevitably lost, and heavily, the exercise tended to quash any budding dreams that he might ever be able to gamble and win.

  Edwina was still overseas with Frobisher, but Millicent and Cassandra had taken to calling at Chichester Street. At their husbands’ insistence and his, they did so covertly, yet there’d been several impromptu dinner parties which their husbands had also attended.

  At times, the distinction between Roscoe and Lord Julian blurred, but he never lost sight of who he really was—and neither, he knew, did his wife.

  And that remained the greatest joy of their marriage—that she knew him, saw him as he really was, and in turn he knew her.

  She was the lady who held his heart, who had risked all to claim it, and to thus give him all he’d ever wanted and never thought to have.

  He had a wife, a home, and a family.

  All the very best in life was his.

  See the first appearances of

  Lord Julian Roscoe Neville Delbraith

  in these scenes from

  Stephanie Laurens’s

  and

  From The Edge of Desire

  Christian alighted from the hackney he, Dalziel, and Justin had taken from the Bastion Club, joining the other two on the pavement in Chichester Street, Pimlico. As the hackney rattled away, they all stood and surveyed the large white-painted mansion that was Neville Roscoe’s residence; overlooking Dolphin Square, it was an imposing sight.

  Yet there was nothing overdone about it. The house was a simple statement of solid wealth and permanence, a description that fitted the owner as well.

  They trooped up the steps and rang the bell.

  The butler was expecting them; he led them through halls and corridors that could very easily have graced any of their houses. Opening a door at the end of one wing, he announced them, then stepped back, allowing them to enter an airy, excellently proportioned room, well-lit by long windows and elegantly furnished as a gentleman’s study.

  Tall bookcases were built into one wall. Pedestals bearing a set of superb busts stood between the windows. A large mahogany desk, its lines clean and precise, dominated the room. Various furniture polished to a lustrous gleam, green leather upholstery, brass lamps and two spindle-legged side tables completed the decor.

  That the gentleman who rose from the chair behind the wide expanse of the desk belonged in such refined surrounds no one could doubt.

  Neville Roscoe was an enigma. He was rumored to be the scion of a minor branch of one of the major ton houses, although no one had ever identified which. Roscoe almost certainly wasn’t the surname he’d been born with. Tall, with the same aristocratic features that marked all of them as descended from one or another of William’s nobles, long limbed and rangy, blessed with an athletic physique and the muscles to match, after a cursory glance at Christian, who he’d met before, and a curious glance for Justin, who he hadn’t, Roscoe fixed his dark gaze on Dalziel.

  The only obvious difference between the two men was that Roscoe wore his dark hair in a close crop, while Dalziel’s sat in elegant waves about his head.

  Watching the pair take stock of each other, Christian hid a wry grin. “I believe you haven’t previously met. Dalziel. Neville Roscoe.”

  After an instant’s hesitation, both inclined their heads, the action eerily similar.

  Roscoe transferred his attention to Justin. “And this, I take it, is Lord Justin Vaux.”

  Justin politely inclined his head.

  Roscoe didn’t offer to shake hands; he waved them to the three substantial chairs set before the desk.

  Christian knew Roscoe’s history. He’d appeared in London about a decade earlier, and had made his fortune much as Randall had, although in Roscoe’s case he’d had no truck with secrecy—that wasn’t his style. The other difference was that, while Randall had worked to come up in the world, Roscoe had patently, and very deliberately, stepped down from whatever his base within the aristocracy was to run a string of select gambling hells. He was a superb card player, was known to have won fortunes, yet rarely lost more than modest amounts. Even by the ton’s jaded standards, he was a gamester extraordinaire. Yet although he was now very wealthy, rather than attempt to rejoin the ton—something he most likely could do with reasonable ease—he continued to eschew society. Indeed, he lived a very private life.

  One of the few concessions he made to his true station was his surroundings; he lived in luxury, and the way he moved within the elegance of his house verified beyond doubt that that was, indeed, the milieu to which he’d been born.

  He sat as they did, then arched his brows. “And how may I help you, gentlemen?”

  “At this stage,” Christian replied, “we’re interested in information about the proposed sale of the Orient Trading Company. We’ve been led to believe you were hoping to be the buyer.”

  Roscoe’s eyes were watchful. “And what’s your interest in the sale?”

  “I’m acting for Lady Letitia Randall née Vaux, Randall’s widow.” Christian waved at Justin. “Lord Vaux is here as her surrogate.”

  Roscoe’s gaze flicked to Justin. “The one with a warrant sworn against him for Randall’s murder?” His gaze shifted to Dalziel. “But of course, you’d know that.”

  “Indeed,” Dalziel replied. “We also know someone else murdered Randall.”

  Roscoe’s brows rose. That was news to him.

  “We’re currently pursuing the avenue,” Christian smoothly went on, “that Randall was murdered because of the proposed sale.”

  Roscoe met his eyes, then dropped all pretense of nonchalance; leaning his forearms on the desk, eyes narrowing, he was suddenly all business. “If that’s the case, obviously the murderer wasn’t me.”

  Christian inclined his head. “Just so. But we need to learn all we can about the proposed sale in order to identify those most affected—at present there’s possibilities aplenty as to who might actually have done the deed.”

  Roscoe’s gaze turned inward.

  They waited.

  “First,” he eventually said, his gaze lowering to fix on his hands, clasped on the desk, “I should clarify that, as matters stand, at some point I would, almost certainly, have made an offer for the Orient Trading Company—an offer Randall and his partners wouldn’t have been able to refuse.” Lifting his gaze, Roscoe met Dalziel’s eyes, then looked at Christian. “Randall and the others had worked diligently to establish themselves. They’d come a long way.”

  “All the way from Hexham,” Christian said.

  Roscoe smiled; that had indeed been the information he’d be
en probing for. “You discovered that, did you?”

  “Indeed. And you?” Christian asked.

  “Only recently.” Roscoe met Dalziel’s eyes. “I make it a point of learning all I can about those I propose to do business with.”

  “So you approached Randall?” Dalziel continued the interrogation.

  Roscoe shook his head. “I would have eventually—there’s many who’ll tell you that. But I didn’t have to make overtures. Randall came to me—or rather, he let it be known in the right quarters that he and his partners were interested in selling the Orient Trading Company, lock, stock, and barrel.”

  “There were other potential buyers,” Dalziel remarked.

  “True, but none with pockets as deep as mine. And I was prepared to pay well—acquiring the company was always a part of my long-term strategy.”

  Christian could well imagine it. And there were few who would or could effectively stand in Roscoe’s way. Although the acquisition and the merging of the company’s gaming hells with his own would make him extremely powerful, as Gallagher had intimated, even the underworld czars would nod and let him be. Roscoe was regarded as a stabilizing influence at the interface between legal and illegal activities. He refused to allow any underhanded practices in his establishments, and by and large, all was kept strictly aboveboard.

  He held no truck with crime, and with his views so widely known—and so rigidly enforced—even the czars preferred the devil they knew, even if he marched to a beat not their own.

  “Apropos of which”—Roscoe’s dark eyes turned to Christian—“I’m willing to tell you all I know about Randall’s proposed sale in return for an agreement to be presented, at the appropriate time, to the new owner and the other two partners, as Randall’s chosen buyer.”

  Christian held his gaze for a moment, then nodded. “We’re prepared to give you an assurance to that effect.”