Read The Lady Risks All for Free Online Page A

efforts some glimmer must have shown. Her eyes slowly narrowed, then, lips firming, she nodded. “Very well. Show me.”
    Opening the door, he waved her in.
    Head high, she stepped over the threshold. He followed her into the first-floor gallery that circled the library proper, on the ground floor.
    She clung to the shadows by the book-lined walls, staring down at the seven gentlemen seated about the central table. Ledgers and notebooks at the ready, they were waiting for him to open the meeting, meanwhile trading the usual social conversation gentlemen of their ilk used to pass the time.
    The gallery was thickly carpeted, allowing Miss Clifford and him to move without attracting attention. Lifting a large armchair, he set it down by the gallery railing and waved her to it.
    She hesitated, then crept forward and sat. He waited while she settled her cape and set her reticule in her lap, then, standing behind the chair, he leaned over her and whispered by her ear, “Unless you stand up, they won’t see you. Unless you make a loud noise, they won’t hear you. You, however, can see, and you’ll be able to hear every word said about that table.”
    Ruthlessly suppressing the intense, unprecedented, and unnerving sensations that deep voice murmuring in her ear, his breath stirring the tiny tendrils of hair dangling about her nape, evoked, Miranda tuned her ears to the conversations about the table and discovered he was right. The gallery was perfectly positioned acoustically; she could easily make out all that was said, even though the men were speaking relatively quietly.
    Roscoe was still hovering over her—close, too close; his warmth, his strength, his scent—everything about his nearness made her senses seize. Her lungs felt so tight she could barely breathe; with an effort, she managed a nod.
    Satisfied, he started to draw back, paused, then returned, lowering his head to murmur, again maddeningly in her ear, “Incidentally, we call ourselves the Philanthropy Guild.”
    She blinked.
    Before she’d fully processed his words, he’d slipped back to the door and left.
    R oscoe joined his fellow Guild members around the library table, apologized for keeping them waiting, then opened the meeting and fought to keep his mind on the business he and the other seven had gathered to discuss.
    Their organization was straightforward. They ran charitable projects, with each member having oversight of one project at a time and reporting to the group on progress at each meeting. Normally they met once a month, but lately they’d been evaluating and embarking on several new projects—Roderick’s, given he’d only recently joined the group, and two others replacing completed projects—so had stepped up the frequency of their meetings.
    Each project was financed through a fund administered by a finicky, dour solicitor. Each of them contributed however much they wished, but the minimum contribution of five thousand pounds a year kept the membership exclusive.
    Ro Gerrard, Viscount Gerrard, had been the first real member. Ro might have made an excellent gambler, but his heart had never been in it. However, the same incisive mind that would have proved an advantage juggling odds was even better at gauging risks and potential outcomes of more human-based investments. Venturing into the arena of philanthropic endeavors, Ro had stumbled across Roscoe, and, after getting over his surprise, had—as Ro was wont to do—asked questions, and offered suggestions, and persisted until Roscoe had agreed that joining forces was a sensible move.
    From that small beginning, the Guild had grown.
    “The young women at the academy seem to be responding well to Mrs. Canterbury’s methods of instruction.” Sebastian Trantor, relatively recently recruited after he’d married Ro’s sister-in-law, continued with his assessment of progress at a Guild-funded school in Lincoln that taught selected female orphans the necessary skills to become ladies’