Chapter 13
Thirteen
Emerson forced the disturbing conversation between Rose and Lady Huntley from his mind.
Any lack of concentration at this juncture could get him caught and transported.
He opened the top drawer of a massive oak desk.
It was highly organized with a few pens, quills, a stack of vellum, and a pair of reading spectacles.
In another drawer he rifled through a few personal notes from social acquaintances and a family member from Dorchester that included a miniature of identical twins of an indeterminant age, though he could tell they were boys.
Below that, he found a map of the duke’s landholding labeled “Dorchester.” He thumbed quickly through more correspondence and stopped.
R—
The age of intended victims has raised. their purpose, however, remains the same. Time grows short.
Yrs, H
The paper was yellowed and crinkled. Old and…interesting. Left more questions and no answers. It appeared Lady Stanford didn’t know her brother half so well. Emerson committed the words to memory and placed the folded note back where he’d found it and slipped out the way he’d entered—the window.
The walk to Manchester Square took all of five minutes. He quietly let himself in the front door and strode straight for the drawing room and the brandy.
His mind jumbled with all the directions it needed to go but couldn’t decide on which to focus on first. Was there some connection to the women of Hope House?
And what? The urge to read the worst into the missive he’d located was tempting and would also behoove him to remember the age and condition of the note, besides the fact the man was a bloody duke.
One of the most, if not the most, powerful human in the whole of the United Kingdom and Ireland.
The man’s own wife and sister had founded a shelter for underprivileged women and girls.
Emerson had a difficult time believing that the duchess and Lady Huntley were drawing these women in only to sell them for nefarious reasons.
Rose certainly had nothing to do with such a scheme—even had he an inkling of something so vile, seeing her fiercely face off against Billy for Miss Macy would have nixed any doubt.
After the bit of information gleaned from Rose and her sister, he wanted to berate himself for being so angry with her.
Because how on earth could he fault her for saving Miss Macy?
The poor chit had been brutalized. All his anger with the impulsive Lady Stanford had fled after overhearing their discussion.
The conversation had him even trying to come up with more ways to offer his assistance for the rampant abuse toward those young women at Hope House.
But in light of the note, doubts now flooded him. And who the devil was “H”? Someone at Hope House? Huntley? Ben signing his name as Hallandale?
Emerson paced to the window that overlooked Spanish Place to Hertford House, with all its windows lighting up the night sky, and groaned.
The entire situation was a bloody mess. And none of it linked to who was attempting to extort money from Emerson regarding Ben, or alluded to what information they had for said money.
Emerson shoved a hand in his pocket, his fingers brushing against the touch of soft lace.
He pulled out the handkerchief he’d intended to return to Lady Stanford, but it seemed to bring him luck and he pushed it back into his pocket.
The very feel of it had an odd, calming effect on him.
Acted as an elixir to his rising temper.
He’d find the bloody scoundrel trying to blackmail him and thrash him a good one. And he’d bloody well enjoy the task, he told himself, striding for the desk and whipping out a piece of paper. He dipped his quill in the inkwell.
My dearest Lady Stanford…
~~~
Rose sipped her wine, surveying the company around the table, though her attention remained split…meaning the other half was snagged by whatever was happening in her brother’s study.
The conversation was lively with Gabriella and Huntley, Sebastian and Rebecca, and talk of Antonia’s and Claire’s coming children, each due within the next month or two.
Both sisters had remained home, but Claire’s husband, Beaumont, had kindly accompanied Rose.
The rest of the party included Lord and Lady Harlowe, the Kimptons, the Brockways, and the Prime Minister, Lord Liverpool.
An odd addition, and since his late wife’s passing was but the prior month, he wore a black armband.
Certainly Rose had no call to criticize, considering her own blackguard of a husband had only been gone three months and she was in the throes of turning her nose up at society’s strict mourning rules for women.
“It’s confirmed. Hallandale has expired, and his heir hasn’t been seen in years. There’s an ongoing inquiry as to his whereabouts.” Liverpool spoke as if ice ran through his veins instead of blood. “Studious man as I recall.”
Lord Kimpton frowned. “Is there word on who the next in line is?”
Rose set her wine down and picked up her spoon, then set it down lest she dropped it from her shaking fingers. That familiar tingle started at her skull and covered her whole head. Her stomach rippled from the inside out as if a gaggle of honking geese ran wild within.
Liverpool went on. “Hallandale had a cousin who died a few years back. Name of Jaxton Massey. Has a couple of sons as I recall.” He lifted one shoulder.
“The older one is a bastard, I believe. Ineligible for the title. The younger one, however…” His words trailed away, and Rose thought she might faint then and there.
A silent message passed between Sebastian and Rebecca.
Irritation fleeted Rebecca’s expression but quickly dissipated as she rose from the table.
“Ladies, shall we adjourn to the drawing room? I have sherry and madeira if anyone is interested.” She shot Sebastian a look.
“Other spirits too.” The parting shot acted as an exclamation point.
Sebastian’s expression grew more stoic, if that was even possible, and Rose stifled a quick grin.
Rebecca considered herself Sebastian’s equal, to his ever constant grief.
Outside of anything formal, however, it was clear how much Sebastian doted on her.
The success of Hope House was absolute proof.
Rose followed the other ladies from the dining hall, but she quickly darted up the stairs to her old chamber for a much-needed respite from the tedious dinner. Liverpool had always unnerved her. His late wife had been a paragon but sickly. Her charitable works were legendary.
Again, Hope House.
Rose stole inside the chamber and was instantly attacked—in a good way. “Goodness, Lady MacBeth. What are you doing here?”
Gabriella’s smush-nosed dog danced around her feet as if she’d been saved from the gallows with happy little yips.
“It can’t have been that bad. You’ve the whole chamber to yourself,” Rose told her.
There was a nice fire roaring in the hearth, and Rose went to the nearest chair and plopped down.
Of course, Lady MacBeth had the manners of her namesake and jumped in her lap without an invitation.
Rose didn’t have the heart to set her aside, and scratched her behind her ears.
The door opened, and her sister entered. “Hiding out, are you?”
“I just needed a moment, and your dog refused to let me leave.”
“So I see.” But the little traitor deserted Rose the instant Gabriella took a seat on the settee.
“Why is she in my chamber?”
“Mine is much too small for my little queen,” she said in a voice used only for infants and small children, then touching her nose to Lady MacBeth’s.
“Isn’t that right, your majesty?” She lifted her head with a cheeky grin aimed at Rose.
“Besides, this hasn’t been your chamber for many years.
” There was no heat or jab intended as a slight.
Only a tease that had a giggle—a giggle! —escaping Rose.
A year ago such a statement might have spun her into an all-out fury. And tonight, she was giggling. Would wonders never cease? She shook her hand. “Do you think Rebecca will be offended we didn’t join the other ladies?”
“She would never say so.” But Gabriella set Lady MacBeth aside and stood. “Will you come?”
“I suppose. I just need a minute longer.” Enough time to check Sebastian’s study for lurkers.
Gabriella smiled and kissed her dog on her queenly head then left, closing the door softly behind her.
“I suppose I best be on my way as well,” Rose informed the dog.
Lady MacBeth, in a tiff now, didn’t bother responding, laying her head on her paws, choosing to stare at the fire. A queenly rebuff if ever there was one.
Rose stole quietly down the servant stairs and took the back hallway to Sebastian’s office.
She stole inside and stopped. The easy mood in the room halted, and she found herself facing six men who’d risen upon her entry.
None of whom were Mr. Whitmore. Heat flooded her face.
She lifted her chin. “Apologies, gentlemen. I thought for a quiet respite…” It was the only thing that came to her in the moment.
Inwardly cringing, she spun on her heel, trying for a dignified retreat, and hurried to the drawing room.
“Oh, there you are, Rose. I was about to send for the cavalry,” Rebecca said.
Rose narrowed her eyes on the duchess. “As I told Gabriella, I just needed a moment.”
“Lady Brockway was just suggesting the possibility of adding another segment to Hope House,” Rebecca said.
Intrigued, Rose took a seat next to Lady Harlowe. “Oh?”
A sly smile touched Rebecca, raising the hair on Rose’s neck.
Lady Brockway’s laugh came out brash. But for sounding like an ill mule’s bray, she was a lovely woman. She cleared her throat. “Um, yes. I was just about to mention how my children have been enjoying safeguarding lessons.”
Rose glanced about the company. No one seemed confused by this statement but herself. “What on earth are those?”
“Instructions on how to defend one’s person from nefarious scoundrels,” Gabriella said. “I think the women of Hope House would benefit greatly from such training.”
Rose was speechless. “You mean, like, boxing? For young women? It’s unheard of. Scandalous, even… Who… Where…”
“It’s nothing like boxing. My husband has shown excellent skill in the matter,” Lady Brockway said with a sharp and knowing smile and a voice coated in forged steel, and without a single escaping bray.
Oh, my.