Chapter 20
Twenty
Hope House had once blended into its neighbors with its aged brick, weary stoop, and a door that bore the quiet burden of secrets. But today, something felt changed. Or perhaps it was just Emerson, still dusted with Sussex and too many miles of questions.
He lifted the brass knocker and let it drop—firm, with purpose. It appeared newer than he recalled. The sound barely echoed before the door cracked open.
The stout housekeeper whose name failed him in that moment stood in the narrow space, her starched apron immaculate, her eyes widened. “Mr. Whitmore, is it?” There was no disguising her Scottish accent.
He inclined his head. “Indeed. I’m here to see Lady Stanford.”
She didn’t so much as blink. “Lady Stanford has departed for the day, sir.”
It was not a mere dismissal. It was a statement of fact, resolute and unyielding.
“Do you know when she’s expected—?”
“Nay. ’Er schedule, ’tis not always…er, regular.”
His lips firmed, but before he could press further, a voice floated in from the hallway behind her.
“Is that Mr. Whitmore, Mrs. Keir? Do move aside and admit the man.”
The door widened, exposing Lady Huntley, riding gloves in hand, a wide smile curving her lips. “Well, well. Mr. Whitmore.” She waved a bare hand. “We’ve just sat down to tea, and I’ve been dying to speak with the man who’s made my sister so infuriatingly smug with his generosity.”
Mrs. Kier stepped aside. Emerson offered her a courteous nod as he passed, noting how her expression remained carefully neutral, but not indifferent.
Inside, the air was warm and faintly fragrant with lemon oil, starch, and something heartier—clove perhaps.
“Come.” Lady Huntley led him down the familiar hall. “We’re in the drawing room. I know the young women would love to thank you personally for the dresses they shall soon take possession of.”
He didn’t require thanks, but he did want information. Precisely, Lady Stanford’s current location. “I would be delighted,” he murmured.
Upon entering the comfortably shabby parlor, he found tea was already being poured. Lady Huntley motioned him to a low chair near the hearth.
“You’ll have to forgive the state of our humble abode,” she said breezily.
Emerson’s boots likely left a trail of Sussex dust behind him. “It’s quite acceptable,” he said with a wry smile.
Several pairs of interested eyes flicked over his mud-splashed hem, travel-worn coat, and rumpled cravat. “Good God,” she murmured with a grin, “have you been somewhere?”
“Sussex, my lady. A family matter.”
“How rustic.” She sat, smoothing her skirts. “We’ve a cook who’s recently taken to walnut cake, though her first attempt might’ve offended the walnuts.”
Emerson took the seat offered, noting the worn rug, the careful arrangement of books in a corner cabinet he also hadn’t noticed previously, the threadbare but clean settee. No extravagance, but unmistakable order and purpose. The room was lived in, but curated. Certainly respected.
“Miss Botha, would you please pour for our guest?” Lady Huntley said.
Emerson studied the obviously enceinte Miss Botha from lowered lashes. He remembered her from his previous visit. She was much too young, though he’d no idea of her actual age. Her eyes, however, reflected soul years’ experience of suffering, compounded by her current stance.
“Yes, milady,” she said. Her voice was steady. No simpering or pretense.
He watched her pour tea with slightly trembling fingers. “Black is fine, Miss Botha.” He gave her a gentle smile, accepting the cup.
She sat on the edge of her chair like someone used to disappearing—hands tightly folded, gaze steady, too still for one so young. There was a truth about her. The kind of truth men with titles buried in privilege, brandy, and excuses.
Her complexion bore the rich hue of umber, deepened by subtle golden warmth beneath, giving credence to her youth. The woolen gown she wore stretched taut over her belly. He detected no bitterness in her face.
Just endurance. Resilience.
The quiet, terrifying kind—the kind that didn’t ask for anything, because it never expected to be heard.
Emerson had seen silk turned to rope in his East India shipments. That was what she reminded him of. Fragile-looking. Impossible to break.
“So,” Lady Huntley said, settling in like a cat on a sunny sill. “Tell me, how does one such as yourself come to traffic in silk fine enough to make a baroness blush?”
He sipped the tea. Weak, but hot. “We import through my holdings in Ratcliff. Ships from Bengal. The East India Company and I have…an understanding.”
“Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“I suppose it depends on the conversation.”
Lady Huntley laughed, full and sharp. “You’re not at all what I expected. But then, neither is Rose these days.”
He said nothing.
Her gaze narrowed, just enough to betray she’d noticed. “I was surprised to find there was no silk included for Rose in the delivery.”
Rose hadn’t mentioned the bronze? He was certain she’d received it.
Almost. He’d issued orders to have it sent to her home.
Faulk hadn’t liked her, and he silently vowed to check on that delivery.
His manager had been appalled that Emerson had brought Rose to the warehouse.
Of course, Falke hadn’t been the only one, if Emerson were being completely honest with himself.
“Ah.” Lady Huntley’s amusement startled him back to his surroundings. “You did have something selected for my more-than-proper sister,” she murmured.
“Where is Lady Stanford now?” he inquired mildly.
Lady Huntley frowned. “Why, I’m not quite sure. Ladies? Have you any notion where Lady Stanford was off to this afternoon?”
Emerson took in the surrounding group.
They sat together, a half-moon of contradictions and calm, each one distinct enough to draw the eye. One woman who sat taller than the others, all stillness and precision, looked as though she could slice a man down with a single sentence, and do it politely.
Another—red-haired and sharp-chinned—had restless fingers and a mouth made for muttering inconvenient truths. Next to her, a quiet beauty with dusk-colored curls carried herself like applause might follow her into every room, though there was nothing showy in the way she held her teacup.
The most confident among them appeared with a kind of practiced competence that left no room for pity—serene, capable, and wholly uninterested in what anyone expected of her.
And then there was Miss Macy. Clean now, but still wary, like a creature just learning her cage is open.
What bruises he could see had faded to almost nonexistence.
Her hands were bare, as were everyone’s, and he wondered if she still had the gloves Rose had generously stripped from her own hands and gifted her.
One thing that thrilled him was the way Miss Macy held her chin—looking almost as if she was beginning to believe she belonged. And that, more than anything, made him want to burn down the world that had convinced her otherwise, reminding him of another promise to himself: to handle Billy.
None responded to Lady Huntley’s question of where Rose may have gone for the afternoon, spiking his fear.
“How remiss of me to have not introduced our wards,” Lady Huntley said, her smile calm but sure, the kind that commanded attention without effort. A duke’s daughter. Breeding told. Just as it did in Rose.
“Ladies, I believe we failed in proper introductions the last time Mr. Whitmore visited,” she said, addressing the young women.
“It’s my greatest pleasure to introduce you to him now.
It’s due to his generosity that you will have new frocks.
” She turned to Emerson. “These young women are here not because Society welcomed them, but because it failed them. Hope House is a place for women such as these and many others we expect in the coming years.”
A pause settled, and Lady Huntley let it land, just long enough to matter before turning to the youngest of the group—Miss Botha, the girl who’d poured his tea. Her gaze softened. Her eyes met Gabriella’s, wary but proud. One hand rested on the curve of her belly, protective, not ashamed.
There was nothing fragile in her, though, again, she looked barely old enough to be carrying the weight she did.
No defiance—just a steadiness that unnerved him more than anger would have.
She wasn’t waiting to be saved. She’d already decided she would survive, and simply hadn’t asked anyone’s permission.
“Miss Botha has a talent for the pianoforte that is quite pleasing to the ear. She is grace under pressure and courage made quiet. She reminds me—daily—that kindness is not a weakness, and that dignity can be reclaimed, no matter what the world has tried to take.”
Emerson stood and bowed. “Miss Botha. I am deeply honored to meet you. I should dearly love to hear you play one day.”
Her cheeks darkened with a flush, and he found it utterly charming. “Th-thank you, sir.”
He turned to Lady Huntley. “Does Hope House currently possess a pianoforte, my lady?”
“As a matter of fact, it does, sir.” Her entire demeanor softened.
“Thank you for inquiring.” With a small, almost emotion-charged cough, Lady Huntley turned to the woman next to Miss Botha, the one sitting tall.
Her skin, warm-toned bronze, revealed fine features in high cheekbones, intelligent eyes, and a mouth that looked perpetually on the verge of calling someone’s bluff.
“Miss Sharifi comes from a medically trained family and is quite knowledgeable.”
He took Miss Sharifi’s hand and bowed over it. “Miss Sharifi, it is my greatest privilege meeting you.” She didn’t suffer fools, he suspected, and likely never had. There was steel behind that calm. The kind earned in places far harsher than drawing rooms.
Lady Huntley grinned. “She possesses an intellect I suspect outpaces half the gentlemen of the ton and has a composure I envy on my best day.”