brother’s behalf. You mentioned your business—won’t those who deal with you see your distraction as a weakness?”
“No—quite the opposite. I mentioned last night that I’m known to protect my allies. To those with whom I deal, Roderick qualifies as an ally, and if I failed to act, indeed, if I fail to succeed in, at the very least, bringing those who took him to justice, then my power will be seen to be . . . not as great as those business associates currently believe.” He held her gaze. “That would not serve me and my interests well. So you may dismiss any notion that searching for Roderick will in any way disadvantage me. In addition, this is widely held to be my territory, and the underworld in general knows to give it a wide berth. My men even more than I consider Roderick’s kidnapping akin to an enemy incursion on home soil, and they are keen to respond appropriately.”
He saw no reason to mention that the helpful watcher in the square had been a minion of Gallagher, a major underworld figure. The watcher, along with his master, had imagined the long-running surveillance had been undetected, a misconception now dispelled; Roscoe had known of Gallagher’s man from the first, and having nothing he considered worth hiding from Gallagher, who specialized in selling information about criminal activities, he had elected to leave the man in place. He’d had a vague thought, even then, of just such an incident as Roderick’s kidnapping.
He added, “I’ve had men watching your house since the early hours in case anyone appeared to deliver a note, but other than the mail and the news sheets, nothing’s arrived. As you haven’t mentioned it, I assume no ransom demand arrived in the mail.”
Miranda blinked at him. Ransom? “No.” Perhaps she should have stayed at home, but . . . she frowned. “Is it likely such a demand will arrive now—two days after Roderick was taken?”
Roscoe’s face gave nothing away. “No—or rather, it’s less likely with each passing day. If ransom were behind this, I would have expected you to have received a demand yesterday morning.”
“No demand. No communication of any kind.” She studied his face, wondered if she should take issue over him having men watching Roderick’s house . . . decided she couldn’t be that hypocritical. “Thank you for mounting a watch.”
“If anyone turns up, my men have orders to alert me, and follow them.” He paused, then said, “Rest assured, Miss Clifford, when I hear anything further, I will send word.”
His tone signaled that the conversation, and their audience, was at an end, but she made no move to rise, as he was clearly waiting for her to do.
As she’d come to expect, he waited, watching her.
She drew in a determined, if too shallow, breath, boldly held his gaze, and brazenly asked, “Is there any reason I can’t stay and wait for news here?”
She’d succeeded in surprising him enough for it to show. She hurried to say, “Yes, I’m aware that’s a shocking thing to ask, but . . .” She raised both hands, palms up. “If I go home and wait there, I’ll do nothing but pace and drive myself demented with imagining . . . while if I’m here, then at least I’ll know that no trace has yet been found, that nothing has yet been learned of Roderick’s fate.”
Specifically, she would know that he hadn’t received news of her brother and acted on it before sending word to her. It wasn’t that she doubted his assurance; he would send word, but when? She suspected the answer was when he felt it appropriate, or when it suited him. And, she judged, he was perfectly capable of sending her word that Roderick had been sighted and he’d gone to rescue her brother, without telling her where.
She was starting to get a much clearer notion of what sort of man Neville Roscoe was. Although her insights and suspicions did not in the least fit the image widely held of London’s infamous gambling king, his
“No—quite the opposite. I mentioned last night that I’m known to protect my allies. To those with whom I deal, Roderick qualifies as an ally, and if I failed to act, indeed, if I fail to succeed in, at the very least, bringing those who took him to justice, then my power will be seen to be . . . not as great as those business associates currently believe.” He held her gaze. “That would not serve me and my interests well. So you may dismiss any notion that searching for Roderick will in any way disadvantage me. In addition, this is widely held to be my territory, and the underworld in general knows to give it a wide berth. My men even more than I consider Roderick’s kidnapping akin to an enemy incursion on home soil, and they are keen to respond appropriately.”
He saw no reason to mention that the helpful watcher in the square had been a minion of Gallagher, a major underworld figure. The watcher, along with his master, had imagined the long-running surveillance had been undetected, a misconception now dispelled; Roscoe had known of Gallagher’s man from the first, and having nothing he considered worth hiding from Gallagher, who specialized in selling information about criminal activities, he had elected to leave the man in place. He’d had a vague thought, even then, of just such an incident as Roderick’s kidnapping.
He added, “I’ve had men watching your house since the early hours in case anyone appeared to deliver a note, but other than the mail and the news sheets, nothing’s arrived. As you haven’t mentioned it, I assume no ransom demand arrived in the mail.”
Miranda blinked at him. Ransom? “No.” Perhaps she should have stayed at home, but . . . she frowned. “Is it likely such a demand will arrive now—two days after Roderick was taken?”
Roscoe’s face gave nothing away. “No—or rather, it’s less likely with each passing day. If ransom were behind this, I would have expected you to have received a demand yesterday morning.”
“No demand. No communication of any kind.” She studied his face, wondered if she should take issue over him having men watching Roderick’s house . . . decided she couldn’t be that hypocritical. “Thank you for mounting a watch.”
“If anyone turns up, my men have orders to alert me, and follow them.” He paused, then said, “Rest assured, Miss Clifford, when I hear anything further, I will send word.”
His tone signaled that the conversation, and their audience, was at an end, but she made no move to rise, as he was clearly waiting for her to do.
As she’d come to expect, he waited, watching her.
She drew in a determined, if too shallow, breath, boldly held his gaze, and brazenly asked, “Is there any reason I can’t stay and wait for news here?”
She’d succeeded in surprising him enough for it to show. She hurried to say, “Yes, I’m aware that’s a shocking thing to ask, but . . .” She raised both hands, palms up. “If I go home and wait there, I’ll do nothing but pace and drive myself demented with imagining . . . while if I’m here, then at least I’ll know that no trace has yet been found, that nothing has yet been learned of Roderick’s fate.”
Specifically, she would know that he hadn’t received news of her brother and acted on it before sending word to her. It wasn’t that she doubted his assurance; he would send word, but when? She suspected the answer was when he felt it appropriate, or when it suited him. And, she judged, he was perfectly capable of sending her word that Roderick had been sighted and he’d gone to rescue her brother, without telling her where.
She was starting to get a much clearer notion of what sort of man Neville Roscoe was. Although her insights and suspicions did not in the least fit the image widely held of London’s infamous gambling king, his
Similar Books
