Chapter 11
Eleven
Rose’s aggravation emanated from her like a heavy fog, nearly choking on it.
She could only imagine what her host could see.
He was the most irritating man she’d ever encountered.
Even Stanford hadn’t been able to elicit such depths of irritation from her.
Mr. Emerson Whitmore acted as if she were the inappropriate company.
Why, she was a baroness and a duke’s sister!
How dare he treat her so inconsequently.
He certainly wouldn’t if she were one of her sisters, she inwardly fumed.
He led her to the carriage with a light touch on her arm that seem to burn her skin through his greatcoat she still wore, even past her pelisse. “You may drop me at Hatchards. I wish to purchase books for the girls.”
“I’ll do no such thing.” His mild tone ratcheted up her temper.
“And why not, may I ask?”
He opened the carriage door, but something caught her eye from down the narrow lane and she stopped.
“What the devil?” In a flash she was away and striding down the cobbled street to the opposite side to the corner. “You there,” she called out to a miscreant. The devil had a beleaguered woman by the scruff of her frock. “Let her go!”
“Damn me. Lady Stanford, what the hell do you think you are about?” Mr. Whitmore’s words were a furious hiss, indicating how close he was on her heels. “Stop, right this minute.”
She didn’t. Who did he think he was to dictate to her? She strode right up to the scoundrel and punched the top of his arm with her fist.
“Blimey! Wot the heel do ye think yer about?”
“I insist you quit manhandling this woman. Right this minute.”
Fury radiated off Mr. Whitmore, but Rose was becoming quite proficient in ignoring him.
The scoundrel’s eyes narrowed on her. Moved to the top of her favorite hat and to the now parted greatcoat.
She raised her chin and clutched the edges together, but not before he’d seen the richness of her fine woolen dress.
“And what’ll ye give me for ’er?”
She frowned. “Give you for her? I don’t understand.”
“He’s offering to sell her to you,” Mr. Whitmore said.
“Sell her—”
“She’s me wife, and she ain’t carrying ’er bit o’ the ’ouse’old ’spenses, milady.”
Rose glanced at the young woman’s threadbare dress that exposed bruises along her collarbone. Dread filled her, and she almost wished Mr. Whitmore had caught her up and tossed her in the carriage before embarking on this mission of mercy. Alas, it was too late now.
“Might I speak with your, er, wife, sir?”
The miscreant crossed dirty arms over his chest and took a step back, inclining his head.
Rose narrowed her own gaze on him and approached the girl.
She didn’t want to touch the poor thing for fear of frightening her.
Rose shot a glare over her shoulder at the two men, and the scoundrel took another step back.
Mr. Whitmore, however, took a step closer.
“Stop right there, Mr. Whitmore. I wish to speak to her alone.”
He did as she instructed, but his fists clenched at his sides as if he had to restrain himself from strangling her. Her neck tingled.
Rose turned to the young woman. “Will you walk with me, miss?”
Her widened eyes shot to the man who was or was not her husband—Rose had her doubts—and pulled her shoulders back. “Aye, ma’am.”
Rose led her a few steps away. She wasn’t that much of a fool, considering the neighborhood.
Now that a little of the excitement had waned, the unpleasant fragrance of the Thames penetrated her nostrils.
But as tempting as it was to pull out her orange-scented handkerchief, she resisted and turned to the girl.
“What is your name, dear?”
“Inez Macy, ma’am.” She fumbled a shallow curtsy.
“Is the gentleman your husband, Miss Macy?”
Miss Macy blinked, a slow closing of her eyes. Her head dipped before she faced Rose again. “Aye, ma’am.”
Rose frowned. If that was indeed the case, Rose had no other option but to step away. “Um, what is it you do to assist with the household expenses?”
A harsh red stained her chapped cheeks. “I take in callers,” she whispered.
Anger surged through Rose, but she tamped it back. “Is it the callers who gave you the bruises, then?”
Her eyes glistened, but she didn’t answer.
Rose gripped her hands. “Listen to me carefully, Miss Macy. If that scoundrel is not your husband, I can help you. If he is, then I fear you are on your own. That is the way the law works, I’m afraid. So, I shall ask you once more: is he your husband?”
One stray tear pooled and tipped over her bottom lid, leaving a track of filth in its wake. “No, ma’am. ’e’s not. ’is name is Billy. They call ’im ‘Billy Buster’ in these parts.”
Rose could only imagine where the “Buster” portion of his name originated. “I know of a place where you will be safe. Fed, given a new frock, a warm bed.”
Her gaze turned from hopeful to suspicion.
There was no time to reassure her. “The only stipulation is that you must leave now, as I would fear for your safety should I leave you behind.”
“Now?” she squeaked.
Rose glanced at Mr. Whitmore, fearing he’d heard her. Considering the tight expression and the shifting of his stance, he had. “Stay close to me, Inez. Mr. Whitmore will see us safely from here.” She hoped.
“Mr. Whitmore? Of Whitmore’s Warehouse?” Inez’s gaze moved to the brick building Rose and Emerson had just departed and widened again. She eyed Mr. Whitmore, then drew in a deep, bracing breath before giving a sharp nod.
With Inez at her side, Rose marched them toward Mr. Whitmore. “Miss Macy has indicated that Mr.”—Rose looked down her nose at the scoundrel—“Buster is not her husband. She shall be accompanying us from the docks, Mr. Whitmore.”
Billy Buster shot to an imposing height, sputtering his outrage. “Now, see ’ere—”
Mr. Whitmore had straightened as well, and Rose felt Inez flinch and edged closer to her side. “Is that the case, Billy? Is Miss Macy your wife? Your legal wife?”
Rose found herself fascinated by the quiet yet intimidating softness in Emerson’s voice. Etched with steel and implacability. She’d been right when she’d told Inez he would see them safely from the dregs of this vile neighborhood.
“No.” Billy scowled, and reluctantly admitted, “But she works fer me.”
“It does appear she has no wish to work for you any longer. Miss Macy shall be accompanying us, as her ladyship says.”
Billy eyed Rose then turned his gaze to Inez. “Ye’ll regret this,” he hissed.
Rose received his intended message.
“And if anything happens to either one of them, I assure you, you will not live to see the next day,” Mr. Whitmore said in his calmly remote tone that sent a shiver up Rose’s spine.
A second later, Emerson led Rose and Inez to the waiting hackney-looking carriage, where his driver stood at the open door and handed them up the steps. “I’ll ride atop.” He spoke through a clenched jaw that sent another shiver over Rose.
She could handle him, she told herself. He was a merchant, not a nobleman.
“You may have your driver deliver us to Hope House on Hope Street,” she said in her haughtiest voice.
“Of course, Lady Stanford. Your wish is my command,” Emerson bit out.
Oh, dear. He was well and truly angry.
~~~
Emerson had never been so enraged in his life.
Not at his father for putting Benjamin under Emerson’s constant watch encased with guilt and laden down with conditions.
Not at Ben for all his immature antics and unthoughtful comments and the general stupidity of his actions.
Not even for the sudden downpour currently trickling down his neck, since the high and mighty Lady Stanford still wore his cloak.
If he’d entered that carriage, he was certain he would have shaken her until her pearly white teeth rattled loose. Surely one of the two of them was destined for an early demise. He fumed all the way to Hope Street. A ridiculous name for a street that was likely anything but.
Well, he silently vowed, she would not escape him so easily—
“You best calm yourself, Emerson.” Amir’s quiet voice broke through, startling him. “You will give yourself an apoplexy.”
Emerson shot him a glance to see his lips slightly upturned. He had the right of it, considering his boiling blood. Emerson breathed in through his nose and let out a long slow stream of air. It took another five minutes for his heart rate to simmer.
~~~
Inside the carriage, Rose contemplated Miss Macy’s twisting fingers.
Her hands were chapped and rough, her nails chipped and etched with dirt beneath.
The first thought through Rose’s mind was the girl’s need for gloves.
Rose peeled off her own and set them across Inez’s hands.
Her gaze whipped to Rose’s. Rose shook her head.
“Put them on. I have many pairs. Your fingers must be chilled.”
“I-I couldn’t possibly, ma’am,” she whispered.
“I insist. Don’t be frightened, Inez. Nothing dire will happen, I promise you.”
Despite Rose’s assurances, Inez’s fingers trembled violently as she clutched the gloves between tightly clenched fingers.
Rose scoured her brain for something to say. For some inane subject to lessen Inez’s fear. “Can you read, dear?”
“Read?” The sound was another octave she thought Mr. Whitmore and his driver could hear over the horses’ hooves beyond the carriage doors.
“I-I just wondered,” she said, the familiar helplessness stealing through her.
“Per’aps ye should let me out ’ere, ma’am.”