Chapter 10
Ten
Rose smoothed her palms over the wide ivory-colored sash and down the dark blue day gown of fine merino wool.
She slipped into a matching waist-length pelisse trimmed in a matching ivory lace, then finally donning the matching hat—a foolish thing, trimmed in soft ivory ribbons and a single sweep of a dark blue feather that looked more at home at a garden party.
Still, she set it upon her head. The touch of color was daring. Perhaps she needed both.
The feather quivered when she faced the mirror. It made her look…less severe. Younger, even. Irritated by the discovery, she snatched up her gloves and reticule, checked the mirror for the twenty-third time in all of twenty minutes, then made her way down the stairs. “The time, Winston.”
“One minute after ten of the clock, madam.”
She knew that, of course. She couldn’t explain her nervousness, and she certainly didn’t like the feeling.
Maybe that was one of the reasons she’d married Stanford.
He’d been malleable. Or so she’d believed, she thought, scowling.
She cringed thinking of all she’d divulged to Mr., er, Emerson the night before.
How tempting it had been to pull the coverlet over her head this morning and pretend last night had never occurred. But that was not the new Adventurous Rose. The thought had been enough to prod her from her warm bed and call for a bath at the ungodly hour of seven that morning.
As she stepped outside, the morning sun had her squinting against a hazy, bright London sun even if it was muted by the coal-filled sky. Adjusting her hat, she then quickly moved down the walk through the gate to the street—and blinked.
No carriage. She checked the watch clipped to her bodice. Two minutes after ten.
One minute? The blighter hadn’t shown up in the first place.
A whistle split the air, and she jumped. She glanced up then down the cobbled street, but the only person in sight was a man atop a public hackney. She looked closer and was almost certain she spotted Emerson Whitmore seated inside, peering at her from the window.
Seething, she marched across the street. His driver stepped down and had the carriage door open and quickly assisted her inside, bringing her face-to-face with Mr. Whitmore’s fierce scowl.
She breathed fire. “How dare you—”
His gaze raked over her. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
They spoke simultaneously, but it didn’t stop there.
His gaze jerked to hers. “I thought you didn’t wish anyone to see us together.”
“That’s no excuse for being late—”
An annoying little smile tipped his lips. “I wasn’t late.”
She shook her head, annoyed at herself at his matter-of-factness and the truth of his statement. She lifted her nose. “What’s wrong with what I have on?” Her eyes fell to her bright blue day dress. It was one of her favorites.
“What part of ‘dark’ did you not understand? The purpose of this tête-à-tête is discretion. You shine like a blasted beacon.” He whipped off his greatcoat and dropped it around her shoulders, tied it at her neck himself.
“Do not remove it.” He banged on the ceiling of the conveyance, sending it rocking into motion.
“And that hat—” he growled. Then shook his head as if lost for cordial enough words to finish.
She turned her gaze out the window, blinking quickly at the sudden urge to cry. She willed the tears not to fall. His quick intake filled the cab. She ignored it. Ignored him. This was her adventure.
The ride was quiet, but not uneventful.
As they drew closer to the docks, the pungency of the Thames seeped in as did the raucous noise from the lower classes roaming the tiny curving streets. If something happened, she’d never be able to find her way home. And that was if she wasn’t accosted first. What had she been thinking?
Despite it all, Rose felt safe within the confines of Mr. Whitmore’s unmarked carriage—no, it wasn’t that. It was him. There was something uniquely intimidating about his presence that made her feel safe. Safer than she’d ever felt in Stanford’s company. It wasn’t even a just comparison.
The urge to cry fell away, and she searched her mind for something to say. Nothing surfaced but the weather, and he didn’t appear the sort to have patience with small talk. He was a man who preferred dealing with matters head on, she suspected.
“We’ve arrived,” he said in that gravelly tone that seemed to resonate beneath her skin like an unbecoming itch.
~~~
Emerson waited until the steps had been flipped then stepped out and assisted his companion down.
Between clenched gloved fingers, Rose clutched his greatcoat at the neck, keeping it closed. For half a second, he regretted demanding so harshly she wear it. Curiosity lit her watchful gaze as she stepped from the carriage, that blue feather bouncing from hitting the arch of the carriage door.
The fetching dark blue hat that matched her gown to perfection intensified the green of her eyes even in the cloudy skies. The mahogany curls at her temples gleaming with streaks of bronze left him wondering what she’d done with all that hair. She was quite…intriguing.
He held out his arm. “Shall we?”
Only the stretched kid leather across her knuckles in her hold betrayed her discomfort.
“Come back in a half hour,” he told Amir. He didn’t think they would run into anyone she knew, but better safe than risking ruin.
Emerson escorted her through the sturdy oak door of the nondescript bricked building and to the offices of Whitmore Wholesale Warehouse. “Ah, Faulk, may I present Lady Stanford? She is here to find fabric for the young women of…”
“Hope House,” she supplied without missing a beat.
The expression on the staid Faulk was almost comical. “Faulk Haber, my warehouse manager, my lady.”
“I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Haber,” Rose said with the graciousness of a duchess.
Red stained Faulk’s robust face up to and over his bald head.
“Who is in the warehouse currently, Faulk?”
“A few of the workers, sir. No visitors.”
“Excellent.” He turned to Rose. “Come along, Lady Stanford.”
She inclined her head in Faulk’s direction. “Mr. Haber.”
Emerson took her arm and guided her through a narrow pathway to the bolts of fabrics. “Now, tell me more about these young women.”
She took a deep breath. “There are approximately six to eight young women. One girl is as young as fourteen. She is, ah, carrying.” Heat rushed into her face.
“A child. Not of her choice, I take it?”
“Yes, and no, I don’t believe so.”
“She hails from London?”
“I-I’m uncertain. She is of African descent.
At least, I believe she is. Her name is Kadida.
They are all from different walks, I believe.
My sister, Lady Huntley, and our sister-in-law, the Duchess of Ryleigh, rescued them.
Some are from the theater, some from the, er, streets. All at grave disadvantage.”
Following a path to the back of the warehouse through boxes of tea and spices from the Orient, inexpensive china, carpets, flooring and other textiles, furnishings, and antiquities, Emerson guided his guest into a large storage chamber near two stories high with shelves holding bolts of fabric from bombazine to the grandest silks, to fine lawn, to sturdy wool in every color imaginable.
“My goodness, I’d no idea,” Rose breathed. The sound seemed to wrap his spine in a cocoon of sensation better left undefined.
He found himself staring at her slightly parted mouth then started, giving himself a mental shake. “Typically, I would have met you at my storefront in Soho.”
She faced him, surprised. “Why didn’t you?”
“You didn’t give me much notice,” he said.
There was also the little stubborn part of him that couldn’t resist seeing her reaction to his vast holdings.
Vain of him? Apparently. A confusing conundrum, as he’d never cared before what others thought or believed of him.
“The warehouse holds a more vast selection.”
She slipped off a glove and ran an elegant fingertip over a selection of plush velvet. “Goodness, if I’d found this particular black, I might have served out my full year of mourning,” she murmured. To herself, it appeared.
“Black is definitely not your color.” He poked around a particular stack of stunning silk and pulled one of rich bronze with depths so rich, colors rippled across that picked up the lighter streaks in her hair.
“Oh, my,” she breathed. “This is lovely.”
“I suspect it won’t serve for your young women at Hope House,” he said with a bite of regret.
She spun, facing him, her shoulders reared back with the abrupt straightening of her spine and a scowl marring her lovely lips.
“And why not? This shall likely be the only frivolous frocks they shall ever own in their entire lifetime, and I intend to see they enjoy them immensely.” That ducal upbringing of hers sounding throughout the chamber was barely absorbed by the mounds of bolts that nearly reached the ceiling.
He set the bronze silk aside. “And where do you propose they are to wear these frocks? Their come-out ball? A garden party perhaps?”
“My sister is hosting a tea. After that, well, I suppose they’ll eventually be free to search out employment of some sort and perhaps sell the dress…” Her voice trailed off as if saddened by the eventuality of her statement.
He frowned. “They aren’t free now?”
Rose lifted one shoulder and turned back to her perusal of a stack of fine wool. She snapped her fingers. “They deserve one nice gown in their life. In fact, I absolutely insist they will.”
“Tea. With your sister.” Someone needed to maintain their common sense. “My lady, that does not seem very practical.”
A stubbornness firmed her pointed chin, and she moved to the silks and muslins: peach, yellow, emerald, ivory, cerulean. Her stack was growing somewhat unwieldy.
For every bolt she pulled out, he did the same with the cotton and linen—all differing shades of white—and set them atop of the one very special bolt of silk he was certain she would turn away.
But he would deal with that argument when the time presented itself.
From the wool, he started another stack, adding bolts of gray, dark blue, olive, taupe, and various dark greens.
He eyed the two stacks that would likely cost him a couple hundred quid. Yet he could afford it. He would consider this his one good deed from the past fifteen years. He let out a sigh. “If you will kindly provide the direction, I shall have them delivered to Hope House. What of a seamstress?”
“We have one in house.”
“By the bye, your brother is hosting a dinner with the prime minister tonight. I assume you will be attending?”
She groaned.
Emerson patted her shoulder. “I shall need entry by nine.”
“My brother is not part of any nefarious deeds, Mr. Whitmore,” she said, eyes flashing.
“Perhaps not, but he may know of someone who is.” He took her hand. “Come, we must leave. Every minute you are here offers the possibility of someone recognizing you, and that is a complication neither of us need.”