Paintings of similar quality to those elsewhere in the house hung over the mantel and above the sideboards. Several strategically placed lamps shed a steady glow over the scene.
Despite the visual distraction, her eyes locked on the man who, long legs uncrossing, gracefully rose from the depths of the armchair on the far side of the hearth. As before, he was immaculately dressed, this time in a superbly tailored black coat, blue-and-black striped waistcoat, and dark trousers. A book held loosely in one long-fingered hand, eyes narrowing on her face, Neville Roscoe studied her for an instant, then, his expression inscrutable, he waved her to a chair. “Welcome once more to my humble abode, Miss Clifford. You perceive me agog to learn what could possibly be so urgent as to bring you to my door.”
Stiffly, brittlely, she inclined her head. “I must thank you for agreeing to see me, sir.”
He looked at her, one long, incisive look from those dark sapphire eyes, then he gestured impatiently for her to come forward. “Cut line, Miss Clifford. What the devil’s happened?”
As if freed by his demand, able again to draw air into her lungs, she walked forward, sank into the chair facing his, and simply said, “Roderick’s disappeared.”
Still standing, he looked down at her, then laid aside his book and sat. She half expected him to respond dismissively. Instead, his gaze on her face, he asked, “When was he last seen?”
“Yesterday evening. I spoke with him as he was leaving the house—I thought he was coming here for one of your Guild meetings.”
“He was. He did. He left here with the others at the end of the meeting.”
She leaned forward. “Did you see which way he went?”
Roscoe thought back. “He didn’t go upstairs—he went via the street. I heard him call a farewell to Gerrard, who left at the same time. Gerrard had a carriage waiting and departed in the opposite direction.” He refocused on Miranda Clifford’s face; he’d been sufficiently curious to look in Roderick’s file for her name. “He left here a little after twelve o’clock. Are you sure he didn’t reenter the house, then leave again later?”
“No one saw him . . .” She paused, then drew breath and went on, “And I checked before I came. The clothes he was wearing aren’t in his room, and the book . . .” She raised her gaze to his face. “The journal he brought here—if he took it with him when he left, then that’s not in his room, either.”
Roscoe kept his expression impassive. “He had the journal when he left . . . so it appears he was taken between this house and his.”
“Could someone have been after the book? Was there anything of value in it?”
“He used it to jot down questions to ask of the board of the school he was assessing for funding.” Roscoe considered any possible link, then shook his head. “No—besides, if anyone had been after the journal, they would have taken it and left Roderick in the street.” Rising, he crossed to the bellpull. “As they didn’t, he was the target.”
Rundle appeared in response to the summons.
“Tell Mudd and Rawlins I need them immediately.”
“Yes, sir.” Rundle departed, significantly more swiftly; if Roscoe wanted his bodyguards at this hour, then something major was afoot.
Roscoe returned to his chair but didn’t sit, his mind already considering the first moves in his plan to locate Roderick.
Miranda Clifford looked up at him. “I don’t know how such things are done, but as you know, we’re wealthy, so of course we’ll pay for yours and your men’s help.”
He refocused on her face. Saw very clearly the anxiety eating at her. “Don’t insult me or my men. We’ll search for Roderick, find him, and get him back because he’s a friend and an ally—and believe me, Miss Clifford, I am very well known in this town for keeping my allies safe.”
She stiffened; her chin rose. Her eyes met his as her lips firmed, but then she thought better of whatever she’d been about to say, and inclined her head stiffly. “Thank you.”
He only had a second to savor the small victory—and his success in diverting her, if only for a few seconds; heavy footsteps in the corridor heralded the arrival of his two closest and most trusted men.
They tapped, and at his command, entered. Both were of above average height, heavyset, with hamlike fists and close-cropped heads. Both had noses that had been broken at some point, but despite the signs of their rough pasts, they were neatly dressed in somber suits, and both were quick-witted and intelligent.
And both would be carrying several knives concealed about their persons.
Rawlins closed the door, then joined Mudd a few yards before it, facing Roscoe—awaiting their orders. From where they stood, they couldn’t see Miranda Clifford, but, of course, that meant she couldn’t see them. Smoothly she rose and turned to stand alongside him, facing Mudd and Rawlins.
Both men blinked, but then shifted their gazes back to his face. Prepared to pretend they hadn’t seen Miss Clifford.
If matters hadn’t been so serious, he would have smiled; he’d trained them well. As it was . . . “This is Miss Clifford. She’s just informed me that Mr. Clifford, her brother, did not return home after leaving here last night.”
Mudd frowned. “He left after the meeting—I saw him walk away up the street.”
“Did you see anyone else?” Miranda asked. “Anything else?”
Mudd glanced at her, shook his large head. “No, miss. Wasn’t anyone else about, far as I could see.”
“But there might have been someone under the trees in the square,” Roscoe said, not so much a statement as an instruction to his men.
They understood. Rawlins nodded. “Aye—could well have been. You want us to go and check?”
Roscoe glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf. “It’s almost twelve o’clock. The same time of night. Send all the men out—I want the area combed. Chichester Street, the square, and Claverton Street in particular. You know the Clifford house?”
“Big one, two up from the corner on the right, just past the first alley,” Rawlins replied.
Roscoe nodded. “That’s the one. Search for the next two hours. Speak with anyone you see—jarveys, coachmen—anyone at all. Even at this time of night, the chances are that someone saw something.”
They went, closing the door behind them.
Roscoe glanced at the woman beside him, presently chewing her full lower lip. “If there’s anything to be found, any trail at all, my men will find it.”
She met his eyes. “And then what?”
“And then we’ll follow it, find Roderick, and bring him back.” He meant every word and let her see that he did, watched the realization sink home. Watched her earlier franticness—the fear and anxiety that had driven her to his door—recede a step further. From the first word she’d uttered, he’d known she was strung as tight as a piano wire; he’d done what he could to ease the tension and had allowed her to remain and hear him give his orders in the hope it would ease her further.
It had, but she was already starting to think ahead—to move on to the next stage of worry.
“Come.” He remembered just in time not to reach for her arm, and instead waved her to the door. “I’ll see you home.” He sensed, more than saw, her draw breath to protest, and with greater asperity added, “And, Miranda Clifford, you should know better than to argue.”
Miranda blinked at his use of her name, but if she didn’t want him taking her arm and triggering those violent sensations again, she had to move; he all but herded her to the door, and then it was simply easier to give in and walk beside him.
He swiped up her cloak and held it for her, shrugged on his own overcoat while she tied the ribbons and put up the hood, then, forestalling the butler, he opened the door and followed her through.
They set off walking unhurriedly along the pavement. There were as yet no streetlights in this neighborhood, but the moon shed enough light for her to make out the shapes of men moving under the trees in the square. There seemed to be quite a few. She tipped her head in that direction. “Are they all your men?”
He glanced that way briefly, then faced forward again. “Most are mine, but a few have other allegiances. Tonight, however, those others might just prove useful to me.” After a moment, he added, “To our cause.”
She realized he’d given no guarantees about sharing whatever he learned. “I’ll want to know anything you learn about Roderick.”
“Naturally. I promise to send word of anything I hear.”
That promise had come far too glibly, but . . . “Thank you.” She would have to think it through—think of how to ensure he told her what he learned sooner rather than later. Later, when it was all over, whatever it proved to be.
They turned into Claverton Street and she saw several more figures moving through the shadows. A man was talking to a jarvey further along the street.
As if she’d voiced the question forming in her mind, Roscoe murmured, “Most jarvies have certain routes, certain areas they service, especially this far out of the city. Even if they’d just been driving past, they might have seen something.”
He glanced down at her; she felt his gaze on the side of her face. “We only need one clue—the rest will follow.”
She nodded and turned down the alley.
Roscoe halted, watched her walk into the shadows, then followed.
He caught up with her before she reached the garden gate. “Humor me—why this gate rather than the front one?”
Reaching the gate, she halted, then looked at him. “Because of my aunt. She didn’t want me to tell anyone about Roderick’s disappearance—I wanted to go to the authorities, but she forbade it.”
He frowned.
Before he could think of how to word his next question, she went on, “She’s too afraid of creating a scandal—that people will point us out, and that will sink us socially. She’s probably right, but I couldn’t let that rule me, at least not totally, not in this case.” Even in the poor light, he saw her jaw firm. “Not when Roderick’s life might be at stake.”
She glanced at him again, through the shadows met his eyes. “Of course she’s as worried as I am, and she probably knows I’ve gone out to seek help of some kind, but if I come in through the garden gate and into the house via the side door, she can pretend that I’ve just been walking the gardens, as I sometimes do.”
He would have asked more, but now wasn’t the time. Instead, he gave her what he knew would help her most. “Try to get some sleep. I know that won’t be easy, but remind yourself that you’ll be more help to Roderick tomorrow if you’re well rested and not living on your nerves.” He stepped back with a nod. “I’ll send word as soon as I have any real information.”
She hesitated, but then inclined her head and opened the gate. “Once again, thank you. Roderick and I are in your debt.”
This time, when she stepped in through the gate, she glanced down and took care not to trip.
A pity,
a part of him thought.
He remained where he was as, with one last glance back, she gently shut the gate.
After a moment, he turned and, as he had a week before, walked home via the alleys. They held no terrors for him. Although he called Mudd and Rawlins his bodyguards, he was, truth be told, infinitely more dangerous than either of them.
He’d had to be—had had to learn to be—to survive as Neville Roscoe.
As he walked, he thought of Miranda Clifford. Considered the strange fact that he was fascinated by her, with the conundrum that was her—fearless on the one hand, uncertain on the other.
Given her aunt’s apparent obsession with avoiding scandal, while he hadn’t yet probed why the aunt thought the news of Roderick being kidnapped would create a scandal of the sort to sink the family socially, he suspected he now knew the cause of Miranda’s uncertainty, her lack of confidence over how to act.
What he hadn’t expected, hadn’t foreseen, was the quality of her strength, of her adherence to her convictions. She’d walked away from all safety and come to him because Roderick was in danger.
That took commitment, resolve, and passion. Passionate devotion of a sort he understood, that called to him on such a visceral level he couldn’t—wouldn’t be able to—easily turn from it.
If there was one thing the past twelve years had taught him, it was not to bother trying to fool himself. He wanted, possibly needed, to learn a lot more about Miranda Clifford.
And finding Roderick, and rescuing him, would unquestionably be the fastest route to her soul.
T
he following morning, cradling a cup of coffee Rundle had provided, Roscoe sat behind his study desk and surveyed the documents Jordan had left laid out across the polished surface. The day’s business; Jordan was presently in his own office but would return shortly to begin.
Sipping his coffee, he was about to shift his mind from the happenings of the night and focus on the matters before him when a light tap was followed by Rundle looking in.
He arched his brows.
“Miss Clifford has called, sir.”
And has asked to see you
didn’t need to be said.
He should have expected it.
He hesitated; he had work to do . . . but he wasn’t going to turn her away. He inwardly sighed. “Show her up.” His study was on the first floor overlooking the rear gardens. “Wait.” Sitting up, he drained his coffee; he was going to need his wits about him. He held out the empty cup. “Take this.”
Rundle came forward and did, then departed.
Two minutes later, Rundle returned and held the door for Miranda Clifford, today modestly gowned in pale olive green twill, her brown hair severely restrained in a lustrous chignon at the back of her head. As he rose and came out from behind the desk to greet her, Roscoe wondered whether she knew that, on a woman with a body and face like hers, deliberately modest gowns and severely restrained hair tended to fire rather than defuse male imaginations, tended to incite rather than douse male interest and intent.
Regardless, that her preferred style definitely worked that way on him wasn’t something he intended to mention.
As he neared, she met his gaze. “Mr. Roscoe—”
“Just Roscoe, remember?” Despite the years, he still found it easier to answer to the name without any title.
Lips firming, she raised her chin a fraction. “Roscoe, then. I hope you’ll excuse the early hour, but—” She frowned when he reached for her gloved hand, but she surrendered it and watched while he bowed over it.
“Good morning, Miss Clifford.” Straightening, inwardly pleased by the tinge of color that bloomed in her cheeks—why throwing her off-balance delighted him he had no idea—he waved her to the two sofas facing each other before the fireplace at the far end of the room. “Please, sit, and I’ll tell you what we’ve learned thus far.”
She glanced at him, a hint of disapproval in her eyes, then walked to one of the sofas. “I was going to apologize for disturbing you at such an early hour. I’m well aware it’s scandalously early to be calling on anyone.”
“It’s not that early for someone in my line of business.” He followed and sat on the other sofa. “And as I’m sure you’re prepared to remind me should I protest, if I’d wanted to ensure you didn’t visit, I could have sent a note to your house, detailing my findings.”
“So you have learned something?”
Seeing the leap of anxiety in her eyes, hearing it in her voice, he stopped playing. “One of the men in the park saw Roderick leave this house, but toward the end of Chichester Street, Roderick was accosted by two men. He collapsed and was carried to a coach.” Her eyes widened. His expression impassive, he went on, “My men are currently trying to trace the coach. As yet they’ve had no luck, but they now have something definite to search for.”
The faint frown that signified she was trying to reconcile something about him with her preconceptions was in her eyes again. “Forgive me for being blunt, but while I’m exceedingly grateful for it, you appear to be exerting considerable effort on my brother’s behalf. You mentioned your business—won’t those who deal with you see your distraction as a weakness?”
“No—quite the opposite. I mentioned last night that I’m known to protect my allies. To those with whom I deal, Roderick qualifies as an ally, and if I failed to act, indeed, if I fail to succeed in, at the very least, bringing those who took him to justice, then my power will be seen to be . . . not as great as those business associates currently believe.” He held her gaze. “That would not serve me and my interests well. So you may dismiss any notion that searching for Roderick will in any way disadvantage me. In addition, this is widely held to be my territory, and the underworld in general knows to give it a wide berth. My men even more than I consider Roderick’s kidnapping akin to an enemy incursion on home soil, and they are keen to respond appropriately.”
He saw no reason to mention that the helpful watcher in the square had been a minion of Gallagher, a major underworld figure. The watcher, along with his master, had imagined the long-running surveillance had been undetected, a misconception now dispelled; Roscoe had known of Gallagher’s man from the first, and having nothing he considered worth hiding from Gallagher, who specialized in selling information about criminal activities, he had elected to leave the man in place. He’d had a vague thought, even then, of just such an incident as Roderick’s kidnapping.
He added, “I’ve had men watching your house since the early hours in case anyone appeared to deliver a note, but other than the mail and the news sheets, nothing’s arrived. As you haven’t mentioned it, I assume no ransom demand arrived in the mail.”
Miranda blinked at him. Ransom? “No.” Perhaps she should have stayed at home, but . . . she frowned. “Is it likely such a demand will arrive now—two days after Roderick was taken?”
Roscoe’s face gave nothing away. “No—or rather, it’s less likely with each passing day. If ransom were behind this, I would have expected you to have received a demand yesterday morning.”
“No demand. No communication of any kind.” She studied his face, wondered if she should take issue over him having men watching Roderick’s house . . . decided she couldn’t be that hypocritical. “Thank you for mounting a watch.”
“If anyone turns up, my men have orders to alert me, and follow them.” He paused, then said, “Rest assured, Miss Clifford, when I hear anything further, I will send word.”
His tone signaled that the conversation, and their audience, was at an end, but she made no move to rise, as he was clearly waiting for her to do.
As she’d come to expect, he waited, watching her.
She drew in a determined, if too shallow, breath, boldly held his gaze, and brazenly asked, “Is there any reason I can’t stay and wait for news here?”
She’d succeeded in surprising him enough for it to show. She hurried to say, “Yes, I’m aware that’s a shocking thing to ask, but . . .” She raised both hands, palms up. “If I go home and wait there, I’ll do nothing but pace and drive myself demented with imagining . . . while if I’m here, then at least I’ll
know
that no trace has yet been found, that nothing has yet been learned of Roderick’s fate.”
Specifically, she would know that he hadn’t received news of her brother and acted on it before sending word to her. It wasn’t that she doubted his assurance; he would send word, but when? She suspected the answer was when he felt it appropriate, or when it suited him. And, she judged, he was perfectly capable of sending her word that Roderick had been sighted and he’d gone to rescue her brother, without telling her where.
She was starting to get a much clearer notion of what sort of man Neville Roscoe was. Although her insights and suspicions did not in the least fit the image widely held of London’s infamous gambling king, his words and actions were consistently confirming that her evolving view was closer to the reality than society’s image.
That being so, she saw no value in arguing over when he would inform her, opting instead to describe the anxiety she would be subject to if she went home rather than remained where she was, keeping company with him.
Roscoe searched her eyes, her face . . . put himself in her place, and accepted that she wasn’t exaggerating how affected she would be.
He’d rather she wasn’t there, a potent distraction, but . . . although he had several matters to attend to with Jordan, there was nothing sensitive, no discussion during which she couldn’t remain on the sofa, at a good distance from his desk. He could suggest she go to his library, but he suspected that wouldn’t serve her any better than Roderick’s drawing room. “I fear you’ll be atrociously bored.”
Her expression eased. She patted the rather large reticule she held in her lap. “I’ve brought a novel. I’ll sit quietly and read. I won’t keep you from your business—you won’t even know I’m here.”
He managed not to snort disbelievingly—revealingly. “Very well.” He rose. “If you’ll excuse me, I must return to my work.”
Her gaze rose, remaining on his face. “Thank you.”
If he’d wondered why he’d acquiesced to such an indubitably outrageous plea, the answer was there in her wide hazel eyes, in the green and gold gratitude he drank in like fine wine. With an inclination of his head, he turned and walked back to his desk. Settling behind it, he had to exert considerable effort to force his mind to the matters awaiting his attention, but finally, after a glance down the room showed her with her head bowed, a book open in her lap, he managed it.
Ten minutes later, Jordan tapped on the door and came in.
Somewhat gratefully, Roscoe let business claim him.
T
wo hours later, the door to the study opened. Jordan had returned to his own office to put into action the various decisions they’d reached; assuming he’d returned with some question, Roscoe looked up—to see Rundle carrying in . . . a tea tray.
With an abbreviated bow his way, Rundle carried the tray to Roscoe’s uninvited guest. He watched as she looked up, then smiled and thanked Rundle as he set the tray on the low table between the sofas.
Then she glanced Roscoe’s way, a clear question in her face.
He shook his head. “No, thank you. No tea for me.” Then a delicious smell reached him. He hesitated, then pushed away from his desk. “I will, however, have a biscuit.”
Lounging once again on the sofa opposite her, he took three biscuits from the plate on the tray and—pretending not to notice the approving look Rundle, retreating, bent on him—asked about the book she was reading. It proved to be one of the redoubtable Miss Austen’s works, but the equally redoubtable Miss Clifford admitted to liking biographies as well.
After discovering they had both read a certain military history and shared much the same views on the recent actions in India, he took himself back to his work and left her to resume her reading.
Not, however, for long. A tap on the door and Rawlins entered. Without preamble he said, “Mrs. Selwidge is here. She’s had trouble, it seems.”
He was aware of Miranda at the far end of the room but didn’t hesitate. “Show her up.”
He debated asking Miranda to leave, or shifting the meeting to his library, but . . . this was who he was.
Rawlins opened the door and ushered in a tall woman in her early thirties, respectably, even conservatively dressed, but experience had etched a certain hardness in her face, in her eyes.
Even after all these years, he still had to fight the instinctive urge to rise; Amelia Selwidge wasn’t a lady and would have been surprised if he had. He waved her to one of the chairs before his desk. “Rawlins said you’d had trouble. What happened?”
Amelia had worked for him for long enough to know she didn’t need to beat about any bush. “Lord Treloar. The younger one.”
“That would be . . .” Eyes narrowing, he cast his mind over the relevant family tree. “Christopher?”
Amelia nodded. “Definitely thinks he’s descended from God, an’ all. I’ve spoken to him twice before, but he refuses to listen—or rather refuses to believe my girls aren’t the type to want a roll in the hay, not with the likes of him, at any rate. Last night, he propositioned two of them again. When the first—Cindy—reported it to me, I put our George on to following Treloar, quiet like. Just as well. Half an hour later, he started in on Jane—you’ll remember her, slip of a thing, but she’s a damn fine baccarat dealer—and when she said no a second time, Treloar went to strike her. Didn’t manage it only because George was on him by then. We threw Treloar out, but he’ll be back sure as some eggs are rotten.”
“Trust me, he won’t be back.” He glanced at Rawlins, then looked again at Amelia. “Was he drunk?”
“Not even a little bit tipsy. We follow your rules to the letter—halfway drunk and they’re shown the door. Most go, too, but Treloar wasn’t even drinking. Nasty piece of work, he is.”
He nodded. “You can stop worrying about Treloar. Tell Cindy and Jane—and yes, I recall both of them—that I seriously doubt they’ll set eyes on Treloar again, but if they do, if he approaches them in the club or out of it, they’re to report it to you or George immediately.” He scanned the lines in Amelia Selwidge’s face. “And that goes for you, as well. Any trouble from that quarter again and I want to hear of it. But otherwise, as of this moment, Lord Treloar is banned.” He smiled grimly. “From all my establishments.”
“All?” A slow smile broke across Amelia’s face as she realized the implications of such a sentence. “Heh! That’s going to put a wrinkle in his lordship’s evenings when he won’t be able to join his friends about your tables.”
“Indeed.” Roscoe reached for a pen. “Who knows? It might even teach him some manners.”
After entirely unnecessarily thanking him, Amelia, clearly much relieved, departed; only as she walked back to the door did she notice Miranda Clifford, but his guest had her eyes on her book and kept them there.
Rawlins returned after seeing Amelia out. “You want for me to pay his lordship a visit?”
Already writing a letter—more in the nature of an excommunicatory decree—to Christopher, Lord Treloar, Roscoe shook his head. “No—I want you and Mudd with me. Mr. Clifford’s disappearance is more urgent, and this letter . . .” He paused and read what he’d written, then, lips curving with dark satisfaction, continued, “Will, I fancy, suffice to take care of Treloar.” He signed and blotted the missive, folded it, wrote Treloar’s name on the front, then handed the letter to Rawlins. “Jordan will have his lordship’s direction. Send one of the other men to deliver this, then explain the situation to Jordan and ask him to send word to all the clubs. Treloar is banned for life—or until I see fit to rescind my decision.”