Chapter 20 #2
Emerson smiled back, thinking that probably was the case regarding her intellect. Composure, however, he doubted. At least where Lady Huntley’s husband was concerned. The man must have nerves of steel.
Her hand swept to the slight ginger-haired girl with a glint in her eye.
“Miss Gilly is quick-witted and quicker with a needle. She assists our seamstress, Mrs. Lindsay, quite ably so. I’ve seen her charm a dozen girls into stillness with nothing but a few pins and perhaps an entertaining tale or two. ”
Again, Emerson bowed. “Miss Gilly. I sincerely hope the fabrics meet with your approval.”
That earned him a stuttered reply of “thank you” and bright red cheeks that hid her freckles.
“Next we have Miss Clark.” The graceful young woman’s stature held a hint of theatre in her posture.
She inclined her head as if she were the queen herself.
“Miss Clark came to us from the theatre.” Lady Huntley confirmed his assessment but did not elaborate.
“She is something of a wordsmith. She knows the value of timing, both in conversation and in listening. There’s much wisdom in such skills. ”
“Miss Clark,” he smiled, bowing once again. “It’s lovely to meet you.” She did not blush.
“Here we have the much-esteemed Mrs. Lindsay. Vella’s husband has a fine hand with horses and is employed by Tattersalls.
It is no exaggeration when I say we could not survive without Mrs. Lindsay,” Lady Huntley said with a respectful nod.
“She is the backbone of our sewing rooms. A calm force, if you will. If something is needed, Vella has already handled it before the sentence is completed.”
As he did with each woman, he bowed. “Mrs. Lindsay, you must contact me immediately should you require more materials and supplies for all your efforts. Any request will be met with immediately.” A light blush tinged her cheeks.
“And, of course, Miss Macy.” Miss Macy sat with her shoulders drawn but her chin lifted.
“As you know, the fires she has walked through many could never survive.” The young woman had changed.
Not softened—never that—but something in her had steadied, and he gave a silent applause to Rose for her efforts in saving this girl.
Gone was the twitchy dread, the sense that any moment might end in punishment.
Her skin, still healing, had color now, and not that of bruising. Her posture was less curled in defense.
Dressed in clean linen, she looked younger than he remembered, and more dangerous. Because hope, on a woman who’d had none, was a weapon. He’d seen it in port cities before. Miss Macy was a girl reclaiming her name, her self worth.
“Miss Macy. I’m thrilled to see you doing so well,” he said quietly.
Her eyes took on a sheen she quickly blinked away, and she nodded without speaking.
He could not believe these women were being trafficked. There must be some other explanation for the note he’d seen in Ryleigh’s desk a few nights ago. He would find the answers, he vowed.
Lady Huntley’s voice lifted with unmistakable resolve. “Each of these young women are not just welcomed at Hope House. They are necessary to it. Each brings with her a specific skill and each assist another.”
Emerson rose to his full height. “Thank you for the introductions, my lady. You may consider me a generous benefactor. A…watchdog, if you will.”
A great tension in Lady Huntley’s shoulders fell along with a whoosh of breath. “I understand you met my sister at a notorious masquerade ball, sir.”
Emerson swallowed a shock of surprise that Rose would have mentioned him.
“I vow you are a keeper,” she went on. “I suspect it was the idea of unlimited amounts of silk that stirred her most.”
Emerson’s mouth tilted at the corner. “And here I believed it was the books.”
She grinned back. “Oh, it’s always the books. But we do like our disguises. Silk is just another form of armor, don’t you think?”
He leaned back slightly, letting his gaze drift past her, around the room. “This place—Hope House—has been…fortified since my last visit.”
She nodded, serious now. “Yes. There’s perhaps plenty of skepticism. But Rose, Lady Stanford…well, she’s managed to soften a few edges.” She tilted her head. “And you, sir? What brings you sniffing at the door today, Mr. Whitmore? More deliveries?”
“As I mentioned, I’m looking for Lady Stanford.”
Lady Huntley arched one brow. “Hmm. I suspect she’s haunting the shops on Bond Street.”
Blast. That hadn’t even occurred to him.
“You should bathe,” she said, rising smoothly. “You look like a man who’s been thinking too long in the wrong clothes.”
He grinned outright at that. “I shall take your comments under strict advisement.”
“Now, if you’ll allow us, we must take our leave. Ladies?” The young women rose, each holding her head high, but gracing him with a smile as they filed past him, murmuring their thank-you’s for his gifts.
Lady Huntley stopped, looking over her shoulder. “Mr. Whitmore, if you see my sister, tell her to stop pacing the library floor in Amersham. I’ll send Mrs. Kier in to show you out.”
Emerson shook his head. “That is unnecessary, madam.” He was alone now, but not unwatched—he felt it in the walls, the careful way this house had learned to guard its own.
Books. He wandered to the bookshelf and studied the leather bindings, cloth covers, a few dog-eared volumes of improving literature. But tucked between The Pilgrim’s Progress and Moral Conduct for Young Woman, he found a slim spine: Gulliver’s Travels. He smiled.
“Not armor,” he murmured aloud. “A map.”
He set the book back in place and quietly made his exit, then stopped on the stoop as Lady Huntley’s words penetrated his sleep-deprived brain.
Amersham.