Free The Lady Risks All by Stephanie Laurens Page B

Miranda started up the stairs, intending to fetch the novel she’d been reading and sit with Gladys in the drawing room, when she heard Roderick’s footsteps striding along the upper corridor, then he swung onto the stairs and came hurrying down. Smiling, she stopped on the landing and drew back to let him pass.
    Dressed for the evening, polished and precise, he grinned but didn’t slow. “I’m off for the evening.” With a wave, he continued down the lower flight. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
    She remained on the landing, staring after him. Reaching the ground floor, he strode toward the front hall. She heard voices, Hughes and Roderick speaking, then the front door opened. A moment later, it shut.
    If she asked . . . would Hughes know where Roderick had gone?
    Not that she would ask.
    It was, patently, no longer any of her business, no concern of hers.
    Her time as Roderick’s carer and protector—as his big sister—was over.
    “So what now?”
    The whisper echoed softly in the stairwell.
    Turning, she resumed her climb.
    A s advised, Wraxby called the following afternoon. He’d visited three times earlier in the year but had retreated to his estate in Suffolk over the summer to oversee his three sons during the months they were out of school.
    “Now they’re once more at Rugby, and as I had to venture to London to attend to business, I felt I should not pass up the chance to renew our acquaintance, Miss Clifford.” Wraxby bowed over Miranda’s hand.
    He’d already paid his respects to Gladys, ensconced in an armchair flanking the drawing room fireplace and watching their interaction like a predatory owl. Roderick wasn’t at home; Miranda hadn’t seen him yet that day, but she was determinedly not keeping track of his whereabouts.
    “We’re delighted to receive you again, sir.” Retrieving her hand, she waved Wraxby to the sofa, then sat at the opposite end. “Will you be remaining in town for long?”
    “A day or two.” Wraxby fussily settled his coattails. His attire was always rigidly precise, not fashionable so much as finicky.
    The conversation that followed—a set of stilted statements from Wraxby with which Gladys invariably agreed—left Miranda questioning what her lot would be if he made an offer and she accepted, and he no longer felt the need to put himself out to be entertaining.
    Inwardly sighing, she told herself to give him a chance—to give herself a chance to discover if, via him, she might find a life of her own to live.
    Difficult with Gladys there, encouraging him to remain strictly within the unchallenging social parameters Gladys deemed suitable for the drawing room.
    Somewhat to Miranda’s surprise—perhaps noting her silence and that his entire conversation was with Gladys and not her—Wraxby himself took the initiative. “Perhaps, Miss Clifford, you would do me the honor of walking with me in the nearby square? I drove in along the river and noticed the new tea gardens at the end of the street. Have you sampled their service?”
    “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,