The Lady Risks All by Stephanie Laurens

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