“Not as yet.” She rose. “But I would be happy to walk with you, and perhaps we might both determine their quality.”
“Excellent.”
After taking his leave of Gladys, assuring her aunt that he would take all due care of Miranda, Wraxby joined her in the front hall. He waited in silence while a maid fetched her coat, bonnet, and gloves. After donning them, she turned, expecting him to offer his arm. Instead, he waved her to precede him.
Their walk to Dolphin Square via Chichester Street retraced the route she’d walked nearly a week ago with Roscoe. Wraxby paced alongside her and made innocuous comments about the quietness and quality of the neighborhood; glancing briefly at the huge white mansion that dominated the other side of Chichester Street, she bit her lip against a wayward urge to point the house out and tell him who lived there.
However, his guaranteed response—centering on how she had learned who lived there, and why she felt that an appropriate subject to mention—wasn’t one she wished to invite.
Leading the way under the trees of the park, feeling the cooler shadows engulf her, she looked down the long, sloping expanse to the low stone wall that edged the lane along the river. Forcing her mind from the distracting memory of a starkly, darkly elegant face made suddenly more potent by the proximity of his house, she steered her errant thoughts to the many questions she had concerning Wraxby. He was strolling beside her, his pace slowed to match hers, his head up, his gaze fixed ahead. She glanced at him. “You said you drove along the river—was it a pleasant journey?”
Did he have any appreciation of the finer things in life? Given the paintings on his walls, Roscoe certainly did. Watching Wraxby, she saw a slight frown cloud his features.
“I took that route to avoid the congestion on the other roads. It was faster, certainly.”
She kept her reaction from her face; one couldn’t have everything. “You’ve said little about your house. Is it situated pleasantly?”
“Well enough.” After a moment, as if realizing that was an unsatisfactory answer, he added, “Others have told me that it’s an attractive property. Certainly Maude, my first wife, thought it comfortable.”
Comfortable. Well, that was better than the opposite. Further questions on the house’s surroundings and the neighborhood in general elicited little more. It wasn’t, she judged, that Wraxby was being deliberately unhelpful but that he was naturally reticent. And perhaps unobservant.
And possessed very little conversational flair.
Against that, he seemed as honest as he was stultifyingly correct.
She could understand that, with his first wooing long behind him, he was rusty and perhaps diffident over putting himself forward in the customary ways, yet that left her with no notion of why his interest, however lukewarm, had fixed on her. Casting her mind over all she’d thus far learned of him . . . “You mentioned your sons. How old are they?”
“Eleven, twelve, and thirteen years old.”
“That young?” She’d been under the impression they were older. “I see.” She might just be starting to.
They strolled on in silence, a light breeze strengthening as they neared the river.
They reached the tea gardens on the riverbank. Wraxby conducted her to a round table affording a generous view over the wide gray ribbon of the river. Once their orders were delivered and the serving girl withdrew, he cleared his throat. “Miss Clifford, let me be plain. I am, as I believe is apparent, looking about me for a second wife. One of my reasons for doing so is that I find myself unsuited to the gentler side of rearing my sons.”
Once started, he continued to elucidate and explain his view of their potential association. She sipped the excellent tea and paid attention. She listened as he described . . . the position he had vacant, and why he thought she might be a suitable candidate to fill it.
Her qualifications included her age, her pleasant, conventional, and unexceptional appearance, and her apparent lack of interest in what he termed the more reckless side of social life. Her portion was mentioned in the sense that its size, apparently divulged by Gladys, reassured him that they were social and capital equals, which she took to mean that the funds would ensure that in marrying her he could not be said to be marrying beneath him. He belonged to the same social stratum as the Cuthberts; as was the case with her aunt, social appearances were paramount.
As for his vacant position, it became clear that it could be adequately and comprehensively described as that of a glorified nursemaid. That said, given his position and hers, there was nothing to take exception to in his suggestion. His vision of a potential union wasn’t one society would consider unworthy of a lady like her.
To her great relief, having communicated his thoughts, he made no move to press her for either opinion or decision. Indeed, she got the impression that he viewed a period of protracted social meetings as an essential caution. So as they strolled, again in silence, back to the house, she was free to ponder all he’d told her . . . and to wonder if fulfilling the role of a glorified nursemaid was all she, and her life, were worth.
Muting her sisterly concerns was proving no simple task, but to her relief Roderick joined Gladys and herself at the dinner table that evening.
The instant they were all seated, Gladys fixed Roderick with a commanding eye. “Mr. Wraxby called this afternoon and went walking with your sister. When they returned, I invited him to dine tomorrow evening and he accepted. I expect you to be present—it won’t do for Mr. Wraxby to get the impression that you consider his interest in your sister of no account.”
Because she was watching, Miranda saw the sudden blankness that overtook Roderick’s normally relaxed expression as he hid his reaction to the peremptory demand, but an instant later his features eased and he inclined his head. “Yes, of course. I’ll be here.” He glanced at her, met her gaze, and, his light brown eyes smiling reassuringly, arched a brow.
He’d be there to support her; she smiled to herself as much as at him, and gave her attention to her plate.
Later, after dallying to speak with Hughes about dinner the following evening, she was walking to the drawing room when Roderick came clattering down the stairs.
He flashed her a grin. “I’m going out for a few hours.”
She paused beside him in the front hall. He thrust a journal he’d been carrying into her hands, then reached for his overcoat. While he shrugged into the coat, she studied the book . . . identical to the ones Roscoe and several other members of the Philanthropy Guild had used.
Coat settled, Roderick reached for the book. She smiled and handed it back. “Enjoy yourself,” she said, and meant it.
“I will!” He was already heading out of the door. Without looking back, he waved, then leapt off the porch and strode up the garden path.
Leaving Hughes to shut the door, smiling still, she headed for the drawing room.
She wasn’t smiling when, the following evening, the clocks in the house chimed seven times and there was still no sign of Roderick.
“Where is he?” Agitation mounting, she threw up her hands and rose to tug the bellpull. She’d put off asking after him, holding to her new tack of not keeping track, but this was getting serious.
“Mr. Wraxby will be here any minute.” Gladys wasn’t any happier than Miranda was over Roderick’s absence, but Gladys was less concerned. “Stop fussing! He’s doubtless just late getting home.”
The drawing room door opened. Miranda swung to face Hughes as he entered. “Has Mr. Roderick come in?”
Hughes looked faintly uncomfortable. “No, miss.”
Frowning, she cast her mind back over the day, then surrendered to her instincts and asked, “When did you or any of the staff last see him?”
Faintly converted to definitely; Hughes came as close to a grimace as a well-trained butler could. “Not since last night, miss. You were there when he went out of the front door.”
Her knees felt suddenly weak; carefully she moved to her right and sank o
nto the sofa. “Are you saying he hasn’t been home since then?”
Hughes’s expression blanked; he stared at the wall above her head. “Yes, miss. The maids said his bed wasn’t slept in. As far as we know, he didn’t come home last night.”
“This is the first I’ve heard . . .” One glance at Gladys’s face confirmed that her aunt had had no more idea than she. Miranda looked back at Hughes. “Why didn’t anyone think to mention that my brother has disappeared?”
Color seeped into Hughes’s cheeks. “We—that is, the staff—well, we assumed the master had some reason . . . some interest, as it were, that had induced him to spend the night elsewhere.”
Miranda’s jaw dropped. Dalliance? They thought . . . “No.” She heard herself, heard the denial in her tone, remembered that Roderick was twenty-three . . . chin firming, she shook her head. “He assured us he would be here.”
Gladys snorted. “Men! They’re all the same, especially at that age. No doubt he’s been out carousing in one fashion or another and has forgotten entirely about our guest.”
“He wouldn’t!” Miranda would have said more, but the rap of the front door knocker cut her off.
“That’ll be Mr. Wraxby.” Gladys waved at Hughes. “Go and let him in—and when Mr. Roderick arrives, tell him we expect him to join us no matter what state his head is in.” Gladys humphed. “Serve him right.” As Hughes left, she turned her agatey gaze on Miranda. “And you, girl, will stop wringing your hands, put on a smiling face, and set your mind to entertaining Mr. Wraxby. Don’t forget”—Gladys leaned closer and lowered her voice—“situated as you are, you can’t afford to put off the only worthy suitor to have come your way in years.”
Faced with no alternative, Miranda hauled in a breath and rose as Wraxby entered. Plastering on a smile, she held out her hand. “Welcome, sir. I hope we see you well.”
They dallied longer in the drawing room than was customary, but Roderick didn’t appear. For Miranda, focused on listening for sounds of an arrival—sounds that never came—the conversation went in one ear and out of the other. In the end, she was forced to apologize for Roderick, saying that he’d been delayed but might yet arrive in time to join them. Without actually saying so, she managed to convey that Roderick had sent word to that effect.
Wraxby merely inclined his head, then gave Gladys his arm into the dining room.
The meal passed uneventfully, but the conversation around the table was more stilted than usual, even for Wraxby. Constantly reminded of Roderick’s disappearance by the empty carver at the table’s head, Miranda had to battle to maintain even a thin veneer of attentiveness. Gladys commenced the meal with a show of dismissive bravado, but by the time dessert was served even she had started to fall prey to anxious silence.
The hour that followed their return to the drawing room was the most stressful Miranda had ever endured. She couldn’t imagine Wraxby hadn’t realized that something was amiss, but when he eventually rose to make his farewells and she went with him into the hall to see him out, he gave no indication that their distraction had impinged on his consciousness.
Apparently Wraxby was utterly impervious to anything that didn’t directly affect him.
Any inclination she might have felt toward confiding in him, perhaps seeking his advice, died. Telling Wraxby anything wouldn’t help, and letting him guess might be even worse. Thanks to his overweening self-absorption, they had escaped having to deal with that complication.
Bowing over her hand, Wraxby straightened, accepted his hat from Hughes, then met her gaze. “I must return to Suffolk, but I expect to be in town in a few weeks’ time. Can I hope that you will still be in residence and willing to receive me?”
She forced a smile. “Of course, sir. You will always be welcome. We have no plans to quit the capital just yet.”
“Excellent.” Donning his hat, Wraxby inclined his head. “I bid you a good night, Miss Clifford.”
She held her smile until the door closed behind him, then it fell from her face like water. Turning, she strode back into the drawing room. “We have to summon the constables.”
“What?” Shocked, Gladys goggled at her. Then, “No!”
Halting, Miranda stared at her. “What do you mean, no? Roderick’s disappeared—something’s happened to him. We have to notify the authorities—”
“Absolutely not!” Her jaw setting belligerently, Gladys narrowed her eyes. “I will not have you creating a furor. Notify the authorities, indeed! And what will that get us? Talk! Gossip! Scandal! And what do you imagine those authorities are going to do, heh? How will they find your brother? They won’t—they’ll send constables here to badger us, and otherwise just wait for him to come home, but meanwhile you’ll have set the gossipmongers’ tongues wagging. And all to no purpose!”
Gathering her shawl, Gladys hauled herself to her feet and met Miranda’s disbelieving gaze. “You listen to me, girl.” Gladys spoke with the truculent authority she’d wielded for the past twenty and more years. “I absolutely forbid you to speak a word of this to the authorities. They can’t help us. No one can. The only thing we can do is wait for your brother to find his way home.” Pushing past Miranda, Gladys waddled toward the door. “That, and pray that he has the sense to get himself back here without undue fuss.”
Undue fuss. Miranda watched her aunt stump out of the room. Stood and stared at the empty doorway long after Gladys had gone.
“They can’t help us. No one can.”
For all Miranda knew, the first statement was true.
The second, she felt sure, was not.
“Good evening.” Miranda held her head high and met Roscoe’s butler’s gaze. “My name is Miss Clifford—I’m Mr. Roderick Clifford’s sister. I would like to speak with your master on a matter of some urgency.”
Despite the hour, despite everything, the butler opened the door wide and stepped back. “Of course, miss. Please come in.”
Stepping over the threshold, she walked forward to halt before the central table. The tall, ornate Venetian glass lamp upon it was lit, but set low.
Having closed the door, the butler turned and bowed. “If you will wait here, miss, I will apprise the master of your arrival.”
“Thank you.” Drawing a breath into lungs already tight, she tried to keep her mind from dwelling on what she was doing. Gladys’s prohibition had left her no choice; she needed help to find Roderick, effective help, and she felt certain that if he chose to assist them, Roscoe could provide that.
Undoing the ties of her cloak, she swung the garment off, half folded it and laid it on the table. She was still wearing her dinner gown—a modest, round-necked, long-sleeved gown of very pale brown watered silk.
The butler—Rundle, that was his name—had retreated down the same corridor she’d seen used to access the library.
Within a minute, he returned. “If you would come this way, miss.”
She followed him down the corridor, noting the rich oak paneling on the walls, and the vibrant paintings of horses and hounds judiciously spaced down the corridor’s length. Ornate double doors stood at the end of the passage; the butler opened one and held it, allowing her to walk into the section of the library she hadn’t before seen, the area beneath the wider part of the gallery.
It was a sumptuous setting; pausing just inside the door, sensing it silently close behind her, she drank in the beauty, the sybaritic comfort. In the center of the wall at this end of the long room, a massive fire blazed in a huge hearth, throwing flickering golden light over the ornate stone mantel and sending warmth washing out into the cavernous room. A large jewel-toned rug covered the flagstone floor, and four large armchairs in rich brown leather sat angled before the blaze. Oak side tables stood beside each chair. Matching sideboards flanked the fireplace, and were themselves flanked by floor-to-gallery bookshelves that spread from there to circle the room.
Paintings of similar quality to those elsewhere in the house hung over the mantel and above the sideboard
s. 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.”