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.
Chapter Three
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
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.
Chapter Three
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
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