Chapter 15
Fifteen
Rose stood outside Hatchards with her jaw set and spine stiff enough to crack.
The gray October sky suited her mood to perfection.
Her fury was unmatched. She could honestly say Stanford had never angered her so.
She fumed, looking down at her gloved hands that shook violently.
One might suppose she hadn’t cared enough. If this was how it felt to—
Damn that Emerson Whitmore. After his dictatorial mandate of being prompt to drive her to his warehouse, his insisting on meeting her this morning only to not appear was beyond infuriating. She burned—from anticipation, to embarrassment, to cold, stiff rage.
If that man thought he could steal a kiss, entice her into laying open her brother’s library to search, then vanish without so much as a by-your-leave, he had another thing coming.
Impatience scoured her, scraped over her skin like unsanded wood pellets. She didn’t care! The blasted footman was taking entirely too long to lower the steps. Scowling, she pounded on the ceiling of the carriage. A second later, the door swung open.
Dobbs leaned his closely cropped head of hair inside. “My lady?”
“What is taking so long?” she bit out. If she didn’t do something productive soon, she feared she’d combust.
Which had impelled this impromptu stop at Hatchards to purchase books.
For the girls—since she’d yet to set up these “safeguarding” lessons that had been discussed the night before.
While she’d dashed off a note to Lady Brockway to call on Rose regarding the matter, Rose needed something, anything to distract her and to remind herself she had a purpose beyond some dictatorial merchant who smelled of leather and spice and lies.
Inside, the shop was hushed, the kind of place that expected quiet thoughts and well-bred restraint. Rose stormed in like a battle cry dressed in a day gown of soft green that flattered her coloring, and made directly for the improving literature.
Moral Conduct for Young Women. Perfect. She snatched the book from the shelf.
“A Lady’s Guide to Decorum. Yes,” she whispered. Necessary.
Her arms filled quickly with tomes that would make even her stodgy brother raise a brow.
Her eye caught on a slim collection of poetry—something about longing and dust. She added that to her stack as well in a fit of rebellion, followed by Gulliver’s Travels, because adventure was important too, wasn’t it?
Of course it was. Adventurous, she reminded herself, which she currently claimed as her middle name.
She marched to the cash counter but caught sight of herself in a mirror tucked behind the desk that a gentleman was manning.
Flushed cheeks? Determined brow? Perhaps—and she didn’t hate this thought—a smudge of indignation resided just below her left nostril.
Minutes later, Dobbs was right there to take her package and assist her into her carriage and drive her to Hope House, where she was determined to help the young women with a strong sense of righteousness.
Rose entered the sitting room with her arms full and pride firmly laced into her corset, prepared to share her knowledge. The comfortably shabby parlor was devoid of anyone in need of her particular skillset.
Gabriella was seated before the fire with a stack of papers on her lap and a cup of tea in her hand.
Rose frowned.
Her sister glanced up. “Oh, good. You’re here.” She shifted the pile of papers to the table and patted the seat next to her. “Come, sit.”
Rose stopped, immediately suspicious. “What is it?”
“The bolts have arrived! Oh, Rose. They’re beautiful. And so many.” Gabriella was nearly salivating like the dog sitting on her other side who raised her head.
“Good morning, Lady MacBeth,” she said, taking the moment to think. “Bolts?”
“From Whitmore’s. Half a dozen in rich wool. And silks.” Gabriella lowered her voice in a conspiratorial whisper. “The silks are deliciously scandalous.”
A slight pause ensued.
Rose’s fingers tightened on her packages. Her carefully cultivated outrage slipped, just a little. She’d nearly forgotten his promise to send them.
So. He had come through.
The bastard.
She adjusted the books in her arms. “Lovely. And yet he couldn’t bother to send a message,” she added under her breath.
“I’m sure he has a perfectly sound reason. He must be frightfully busy. He’s a merchant, not an idle peer with nothing more important to do than attend peerage events.”
“That’s a horrid thing to say,” Rose said tightly.
Gabriella’s mouth formed an O then melted into a wide smile.
“Your filter has shifted into obsessive excess, my dear. I intend no slight toward Mr. Whitmore. Honestly, I admire a man who chooses to spend his time working with others as opposed to sitting in his club all day and gracing the hells at night.”
With a stunned grunt, Rose said begrudgingly, “Still. He might have left a note. Or a shoeprint. Or something.” Of course, her sister was unaware of the missive Rose had received the night before, warning he would be storming her residence that morning, and Rose was not inclined to enlighten her.
Gabriella grinned. “I think the silks are the note, darling. Now, what’s in the package you’re holding?”
Goodness, she’d lose her head if it wasn’t attached. A door she refused to open for further criticism. Instead, Rose pointed to the stack of papers on the table. “What are you working on?”
Her sister’s gaze went to the pile, and her nose wrinkled. “Bills. As it turns out, running a charitable operation is expensive.”
“Oh?” She moved to a chair and sat down and frowned as well. “In what way?”
“Food. Taxes. Staff. Wages.”
Rose folded her hands over the package of books. “I thought the young women were offering their services to offset the expenses.”
“They are. But food must be purchased, clothing, linens, rent, maintenance, gardening services.” Gabriella picked up a few of the papers and waved them in the air. “Educational supplies, sewing supplies, firewood, servants to assist. Then there are the added expenses for those who are with child.”
“But aren’t we receiving donations?”
“Some, of course.” Gabriella scowled. “Unfortunately, too many narrow-minded matrons feel that what we offer here is a good waste of funds on women”—she glanced at the door and back, lowered her voice—“who don’t meet Society’s expectations for ‘in need.’ It’s abhorrent,” she finished on a sneer.
Rose thought of the bruises covering Inez Macy’s neck and collarbone. She thought of fourteen-year-old Kadida’s circumstance in carrying a child at such a young age through no fault of her own. “We shall require a midwife,” she added softly. “Medicine.”
“Yes. Lady Liverpool’s death came at an inopportune time,” Gabriella said on a sigh.
“Despite her infirmity, she had been our most powerful benefactor and voice for our cause. Thankfully, Rebecca has stepped into the role. Sebastian’s support as Duke of Ryleigh doesn’t hurt, but more help could certainly be had. ”
Rose shrugged. “I wonder if we could host some sort of event to raise funds.”
Gabriella tapped the papers on her chin. “That is an excellent suggestion, Rose. I’ll talk to Rebecca and get her thoughts.”
Nodding, Rose came to her feet, relief soaring through her. “I’ll also think on it for ideas. Time, place, etcetera.” Perhaps she could lean on Emerson for more assistance. He was, after all, entering homes of the beau monde in a purely clandestine manner.
Except she was furious with him.
~~~
The ride to Sussex was a day away, but Emerson had pushed them out the door at the ungodly hour of five, leaving an arrival time, barring distractions, at the reasonable estimation of two or three in the afternoon.
Of course, October brought about darkness a bit early, but he trusted Amir would bring them in hours before dusk set.
For most of the ride, quiet reigned within the confines of the carriage, and Emerson busied himself with studying the land. Rolling hills of varying verdant in a hazy sun unusual for the season. No doubt the rain would soon set in.
“I’ve a confession,” Ben said, breaking the silence.
All of Emerson’s senses went on alert, but he held his tongue, waiting.
“I didn’t really sell the farm. I-I was angry with Papa treating me as a child.”
Emerson shifted on the seat, unsure quite how to respond. “I see.” After a moment, he took a deep breath. “Ben, how could I tell Father no, on his death bed, when he asked me to look out for you?”
“You couldn’t,” he admitted. His lips tipped in a small, self-deprecating curve. “I behaved in the exact way he expected.”
Emerson let out a stream of air. “Perhaps your reaction was not so out of the ordinary.”
Ben nodded and turned his gaze out the window. “How are you going to find the blackmailer?”
“I have a young lady assisting me. She has access to…” His voice trailed. He wasn’t certain of giving out that information.
“Ah, the lady’s maid from the masquerade.”
Emerson flinched.
“She was quite enticing as I recall. I saw her, you know.”
“You did?” He wasn’t certain how he felt about that either.
“It was wearing all that hair down in public.” Ben shook his head, his eyes unfocused with a kind of wonder that had Emerson snapping his teeth together.
“Scandalous.” Ben cleared his throat. “I started to make my way toward her to speak to her. I didn’t recognize her, but I’m certain she’s someone of import. ”
“Oh? What makes you say that?” Emerson asked dryly.
“The mask. Despite her maid’s costume—which clearly belonged to, if not her maid, a maid—the mask twinkled with jewels.
Small and real, I would wager, but most significant.
I caught sight of her disappearing through a servants’ door.
I started after her when I realized Shufflebottom was heralding straight for her. ”
Emerson’s lips tightened.
“I intercepted him, of course. Gave her a chance to slip away.” He turned a sly look on Emerson. “You both reappeared and took to the dance floor. Who is she? And what has she to do with the Duke of Ryleigh?”
Thinking of Rose’s hair had Emerson clenching his fingers into a fist to ease their tingling.
He managed to swallow his groan. He failed in recalling how sharp Ben’s observance rose to on occasion.
Nor did he have any notion of how to convey his thanks without things turning so…
personal. Without knowing, though, Ben had assisted in averting a near disaster. “Ah, hell,” he bit out.
“What?”
Emerson scrubbed a palm over his face. “I was supposed to meet her this morning.” He couldn’t believe it had slipped his mind.
That she had slipped his mind. In one way, it was a bit of a relief that he hadn’t completely lost his faculties.
Well, there was nothing for it now. Of course, he’d be lucky if she awarded him a second look after this mishap. And that didn’t set well at all.
The carriage took a turn, and Emerson glanced outside and saw they were nearing their destination. They approached the fortress of the Hallandale manor house, a monstrosity of four levels and a wide-sweeping drive. Weeds sprouted haphazardly in what used to be an impressive lawn.
Now, Ben’s groan filled the carriage. “I vow, if I am the earl, this place shall be restored to its former glory.”
Amir took the vehicle past the main house to another road behind where the cottage in which Ben and Emerson had been raised. They rounded another corner, and Emerson’s breath caught.
The dwelling hunched at the edge of the Sussex fields like a forgotten memory, its once-sturdy frame sagging beneath years of wind and silence. Moss clung to the weathered stone walls, and the ivy that once gave it charm now strangled the shutters. No smoke curled from the single crooked chimney.
The carriage drew to a stop. Emerson followed Ben out to the graveled drive.
He couldn’t help noticing how they both approached the front door, now swollen due to rain and neglect, with trepidation.
As if seeing the inside would change the men they’d grown into.
He pushed on the door, where it groaned on rusted hinges.
Dust lay thick on the table where their father once sketched planting rows by candlelight.
The hearth was cold, but charred logs still piled in the grate as if someone meant to return but never had.
He surveyed the spiderwebs veiling the low beams. Guilt punched Emerson in the chest.
Without a word, he followed Ben into the small parlor where once-white sheets, now tinged yellowed and deteriorating, covered the divan, chairs, and tables meant to protect them from dirt.
The house was quiet but for their footsteps. The stairs creaked from disuse, and Emerson peered into his old bedchamber. Faded linens covered the narrow bed he used to sleep in. He wasn’t certain his feet would not hang from the end.
Back downstairs, he found a rusted kettle sitting on the iron stove, as though their father might walk in at any moment, rub his beard, and set it to boil.
But the house was empty now, haunted not by ghosts, but by the silent echo of chores done at dawn, of two boys wiping their muddy boots at the door, of a man’s voice calling them to supper.
Time hadn’t been cruel—it had simply moved on.
But standing in the hollow stillness, Emerson felt the ache of it settle in his bones.
For all its wear and ruin, this place had shaped him and his brother.
And it was still theirs, even if Ben decided to part with it.
He turned to Ben, who stood in the hall between the kitchen and the parlor looking forlorn. “I’ll buy it,” Emerson said.
Ben looked up. “No. I-I don’t wish to sell it after all. It belongs to both of us. Even if neither of us choose to live here ever again.”
A band of iron squeezed the breath from Emerson, leaving him with an inability to respond. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “A sound notion,” Emerson said.