“Our family home is Oakgrove Manor, near the village of that name. It’s in Cheshire, in the Peak District.”
“Oakgrove.” Lucasta frowned. “I believe I recall . . . it’s not that far away, somewhere north of here.”
“It’s a little south of Macclesfield.”
“Ah, yes.” Lucasta’s expression cleared. “Very pretty country.”
More questions followed, circling the subject of her and Roderick’s home—the size of the estate, how many rooms, the stables and gardens. The questions weren’t impertinent or nosy; they were the sort of questions ladies habitually used to gain a better grasp of a person’s social standing. While Miranda could and did answer truthfully, she increasingly felt that by not disclosing the true reality of their situation she was knowingly leading the others astray.
They’d been so openly supportive, so helpful, to thank them with lies, albeit lies of omission . . . no matter how clearly she heard her aunts’ voices in her head, warning of the dire consequences of revealing the source of her and Roderick’s wealth, she simply couldn’t allow the almost-deceit to continue.
Roscoe, she felt sure, knew of her and Roderick’s background, but he, quite clearly, had stepped over the line of respectability and resided permanently on the other side.
His family, however, were bluebloods through and through. Regardless of anything, they were the aristocracy, the nobility, and neither she nor Roderick were of their social class.
Laying aside her napkin, she glanced around the table. The others had been distracted by talk of wedding bonnets, but Lucasta noticed her—perhaps sensed her resolve—and quieted her daughters with a wave, then arched a brow at her. “Yes, dear?”
Miranda drew breath. “There’s something I should make plain about Roderick and myself. While our mother was the daughter of Sir Augustus Cuthbert, our father was the son of a mill owner. That’s where the family’s fortune derives from, so . . .” She broke off. Looking down at her plate, she aligned her knife with her fork and more quietly said, “I will understand if you are more agreeable in the future to Roderick and me taking meals in his room.”
Silence reigned for half a minute; she was reluctant to look up, to see the change in the others’ faces, in their expressions as they realized—
“Well, you might understand, but I, for one, would not.”
She jerked her gaze up to meet Lucasta’s; it was she who had spoken.
Lucasta arched her brows and went on, “I can’t explain, for it’s not entirely my story to tell, but believe me when I say, my dear, that you will not find a single person in this family, nor, indeed, in any way connected with it, who would turn their noses up at someone simply because their money hailed from trade, and twice removed at that.” As if she found the suggestion absurd, Lucasta snorted and shook her head. “Truth to tell, I cannot imagine any of our peers acting so nonsensically.” She met Miranda’s eyes, her own gaze sharp. “We are not, still, the rulers of this land, the primary landowners, because we don’t have a strong appreciation of the benefits of wealth.”
Millicent said, “It’s not as if you’re engaged in trade, is it?”
Edwina shrugged. “I think it far more likely that the ton will turn difficult about the Frobishers. The family may be as old as the hills, but much of their current wealth comes from explorations and ventures associated with that—which is, indeed, trade, albeit it is rather more romantic than a mill.”
“Precisely.” Caroline nodded across the table at Edwina. “I’m quite sure there will be disparaging mutters on that score, but the solution is to carry it off with a high hand.” Caroline looked at Miranda. “As Lucasta intimated, this family in particular got over any negative perceptions of honestly gained wealth some time ago.” Her expression softened as she held Miranda’s gaze. “I believe I speak for us all when I say that while I appreciate the sensibility behind your revelation, your expectation that that fact will in any way change our view of you and your brother falls quite far from the mark.”
Miranda felt . . . disorientated.
“Actually,” Lucasta put in, “considering more widely, I cannot think of many major ton families that haven’t, at some point, in some fashion, resorted to marrying money from trade, most often at one remove—as, it appears, your mother did.” She looked at Miranda, dipped her head. “I acknowledge that we would prefer that the money we married was attached to a long lineage, but in the end, going back through the centuries, when the need was there, lineage was never a deciding factor. The money was. And after all, most of us descend from those who followed William, The Bastard, to these shores.”
“And he wasn’t called The Bastard for nothing,” Cassie chimed in.
“And although that was in the past,” Millicent said, “these days more than ever, what with society’s increasing acceptance of love matches, and as we all know love pays no attention whatever to social class, then you and Roderick are not all that different from us—we were all born to wealth. While our lineage may be older and on both sides, yours through your mother is old enough, high enough, for you to be entirely welcome within our circles.”
“Indeed.” Lucasta nodded. “The ton is still the ton, but the gradations within it are blurring with time and changing circumstances.” She met Miranda’s gaze squarely. “For instance, it takes a great deal of money to run an estate like Ridgware.”
From the way they all looked at her—as if willing her to understand—she realized there was some particular message in Lucasta’s last statement, hidden within yet conveyed by the otherwise straightforward words.
Lucasta rang and requested tea. It arrived with commendable alacrity. After passing the pot, while the others settled to sipping and discussing wedding details, Miranda sat, sipped, and absorbed all she’d learned.
Despite her aunts’ trenchant teachings, she accepted that the others were sincere in not thinking less of her and Roderick because their fortune had originally derived from trade; they were too honest, too open and direct, to doubt. So . . . her aunts had been wrong. Were wrong. Or perhaps in earlier days they had been right, but society had changed and they hadn’t known.
Regardless. . . . she drew in a deep breath, then slowly let it out. She felt as if a millstone she’d worn around her neck all her life had slipped free. At least in this company. Whether the laissez-faire attitude of the upper echelons of the ton applied at the lower levels of the gentry, the levels her aunts and gentlemen like Wraxby inhabited, she didn’t know, but she would certainly look again, this time with her eyes open.
For all her life, she’d accepted her aunts’ view of the precarious nature of her and Roderick’s social standing as immutable and unchallengeable fact. But they’d been wrong.
And that changed things, certainly for her, but exactly how and in what way, exactly what new avenues might be available to her that she’d never before this moment contemplated . . . she’d have to feel her way, wait and see, and reassess.
But meanwhile, what had Lucasta meant? That a great estate like Ridgware would require a small fortune to maintain was self-evident. But they’d been discussing the source of funds, hadn’t they?
Her mind circled, tempted to connect those questions for which she’d yet to learn the answer. She’d yet to learn why Lord Julian Delbraith had become Neville Roscoe.
One thing she felt sure hadn’t changed was society’s view of funds raised through a gambling empire such as Roscoe’s. All very well for some gentleman to win a fortune at cards, but for a gentleman to own the establishments that were viewed as bleeding other gentlemen of their fortunes . . . no, not acceptable. Money from trade once removed the ton might have come to accept, but money collected professionally, albeit legally, from society’s gamblers would, she felt certain, remain forever beyond the pale.
“Miranda?” Caroline leaned forward to catch her eye. “I understand your brother has an interest in charitable projects. I help manage such a project, a local school, and while Julian is h
ere I intend taking him to visit—I wondered if you share your brother’s interest and would like to accompany us?”
If they were correct . . . there was no longer anything preventing her from active involvement in such endeavors; previously she’d imagined her “background” would render her ineligible to be the patroness of anything. Now . . . she nodded. “Thank you. I’d like that.” She hesitated, then added, “I’ve yet to become involved in any charitable works, but it’s an area I would like to explore.”
As promised, Doctor Entwhistle arrived to reexamine Roderick late that afternoon. Roscoe rode into the stable yard with Henry beside him just as the doctor climbed back into his gig. They exchanged greetings, but Roscoe didn’t detain Entwhistle, knowing the doctor would have other patients to see. From Entwhistle’s jovial expression, the news about Roderick wasn’t bad.
After handing the big gelding he habitually rode at Ridgware over to the grooms, Roscoe strode across the lawns and into the house, Henry beside him, still talking about crops.
Parting from Henry in the front hall, Roscoe paused to speak with Cater, then went quickly up the main stairs and along the corridor to the room Roderick was in.
He tapped on the door, paused for less than a second, then opened it and went in.
Miranda sat in her usual chair, but she’d pushed it back from the bed. Sitting upright, she was smiling at something Roderick, still in the bed but now sitting propped up with pillows, had said.
Glancing his way, Miranda’s smile deepened. “The doctor just left. He’s confident Roderick will recover fully.”
Roscoe nodded. Closing the door, he crossed to stand at the foot of the bed. Roderick’s color was almost normal, although the lines about his mouth said he was still experiencing some pain. Roscoe nodded to Roderick. “So what’s the detailed prognosis?”
Between them, brother and sister told him.
“So as long as I take care and stay mostly on my back over the next week, Entwhistle thinks I’ll be able to hobble around on crutches thereafter, and once I can do that, he says I should be able to weather the journey to London.” Roderick looked disgusted, but resigned. “I can’t say I’m looking forward to the next week.”
“Nevertheless”—Miranda patted Roderick’s hand—“you’ll do as the doctor ordered because that’s the fastest way back to, as he phrased it, your customary rude health.”
Roderick snorted but didn’t argue. To Roscoe’s eyes, he was tiring; no doubt the ordeal of having his injuries examined had drained him.
Behind him, the door opened. Roscoe glanced around and saw Sarah come in. She looked first at Roderick and smiled, then transferred her gaze to him. “You sent for me?”
He nodded. “I wondered if you would sit with Mr. Clifford. I want to discuss a few matters with Miss Clifford, and as she almost certainly could do with taking the air”—he looked at Miranda—“I thought we might kill two birds with one stone.”
Miranda met his dark blue eyes. Assuming his invitation was designed to allow him to speak to her without Roderick present, she inclined her head. “Thank you. I daresay a walk will do me good.”
A walk with him definitely would; she hadn’t seen him all day. To her surprise, she’d felt the lack, presumably due to having spent the last several days almost constantly in his company.
Roderick smiled and extended his free hand to Roscoe. “I can’t thank you enough for getting me out of Kempsey and Dole’s clutches. When I think of what would have happened if you hadn’t . . .”
Roscoe clasped Roderick’s hand. “You should thank your sister.” He shot her a look as she rose. “It was she who alerted me to your disappearance, and without her help, getting you out of Kempsey and Dole’s tender care would have been impossible. I couldn’t have done it on my own.”
For once, she had no difficulty reading his expression; it warmed her.
Roderick’s smile deepened as he transferred it to her. “Miranda’s always been a rock—she’s pulled me out of more scrapes than I can count.”
She humphed and patted his uninjured foot. “Rest—you’re flagging again.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Roderick turned his head to smile at Sarah, who’d settled quietly in the armchair, but by the time Miranda reached the door, his lids had fallen once more.
Joining Roscoe in the corridor, she waited while he shut the door, then they walked down the corridor to the gallery. The stairs were at the nearer end, but he waved her on. “We can go this way.”
The walls further along the gallery were lined with paintings of . . . she supposed they were his ancestors. When she slowed, openly studying the portraits, he murmured, “Delbraiths have been at Ridgware for centuries.”
“So I see.” They’d passed numerous early earls, identified by small plaques beneath each painting, then in the seventeenth century, the title changed to duke. As they neared the end of the line of ducal portraits, she slowed even more. Above and below the portraits of each duke were those of family members. She came to the portrait of Marcus, seventh Duke of Ridgware. The smaller portrait immediately below it was of Lucasta. The next and last ducal portrait was of George, the eighth duke.
She stopped. Roscoe halted beside her. After a moment he said, “Henry’s father. He died unexpectedly.”
Henry’s father, Julian’s older brother; she wondered at the lack of emotion, positive or negative, in his voice. “No portrait of Henry?”
“They’re traditionally done at age twenty-five.” He hesitated, then said, “Henry was three years old when he inherited. He’s fifteen now, so he has some years yet before he has to weather the torture.”
“Did you find it a torture to stand still for so long?” The portrait next to Lucasta’s was that of an elegant gentleman. Dark sapphire-blue eyes looked out of the painting; even at twenty-five, he’d possessed the physical allure that, years later, still cloaked him. But the man portrayed was more lighthearted, his smile holding insouciance, irreverence, with a devil-may-care glint in his eyes.
“Standing still was never my forte.”
She could see that; barely reined energy radiated from the painted figure. That reckless energy had intensified with the years and coalesced into something more powerful. In more ways than one the man standing beside her was fundamentally more than his younger self. There were subtle but definite physical changes in his face, in the way he wore his hair, in the heavier musculature of chest, shoulders, and thighs. As for the almost effeminate, languid grace investing the figure in the portrait, the grace remained but the languor was long gone.
Faced with the man he was now, she wasn’t sure anyone would instantly link him to the man he’d been.
The plaque beneath the painting caught her eye and answered one of the myriad questions circling in her mind. Lord Julian Roscoe Neville Delbraith. That was where his alias, Neville Roscoe, came from, and why he preferred to be addressed as Roscoe, that being his second given name, rather than Neville, which she recalled from an earlier portrait was a former duchess’s family’s name.
Studying the portrait, the face that had grown more austerely masculine with the years, she longed to ask why. Why he’d left this younger man and his life of hedonistic pleasure—something the artist had captured in the luxurious and sensual setting—behind. Why he’d turned his back on that—the epitome of a wealthy young man’s aspiration—to become London’s gambling king.
She wanted to know, but she couldn’t ask. Couldn’t pry. If he wished to tell her, he would, but if he deemed it something she didn’t need to know, she would have to be content with never knowing.
Roscoe waited beside her with what patience he could muster. Stop looking at him, he’s dead. Look at me instead—I’m here and he isn’t. Not anymore. The words burned the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them.
Eventually, she glanced at him. “I don’t know what to call you—how to address you. Lord Julian or Roscoe?”
The answer required a little thought. “Dispense with the �
�lord,’ but here, from you, either will do.”
For an instant she held his gaze, then glanced back at the portrait. After a moment, she turned back to him. Brusquely, not bothering to disguise his impatience—his dislike of her studying his former self—he waved her along the gallery. Without another word, she strolled on.
They walked side by side down the stairs at the gallery’s end, then he led her through the corridors to the garden hall and out onto the south lawn. She was tall enough, had legs long enough, that he didn’t have to adjust his stride much but could amble easily. As they strolled, the peace of the place reached for him, sank into him and eased him.
It always had. Even after so many years, he was unable to comprehend how George had come to risk it all. To lose it all.
The gardens were large; although he had a destination in mind, he saw no reason to rush. Even though he wasn’t touching her, having her close somehow soothed him; with no one else around to distract either of them, her nearness felt comfortable, a new, different, yet desirable evolution.
He ambled on without speaking, and she did the same.
And unexpected contentment prevailed.
Miranda was fascinated by the fresh views of the house, and even more by the gardens. The manicured lawns, the gravel paths freshly raked, the beds and borders closer to the house, the shrubberies further back beyond the large trees, with narrow paths disappearing into them. Everywhere she looked, lush order held sway. “It takes a great deal of money to run an estate like Ridgware.” It wasn’t hard to see that it would require a small fortune to keep house and gardens in such pristine state, let alone the rest of the estate. All she’d seen of it during their drive to the house had been groomed to the same high standard.
Ridgware was beautiful, and cherished.
Quite aside from the money, it was the care lavished on the place that made it not just a house but a home, not just an estate but a living community. A glimpse of a gardener raking leaves, of a maid tripping down to the woods with a trug, underscored that what she was viewing wasn’t just a mansion but something more.
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