Chapter Twenty-Two
Twenty-Two
The next morning arrived with a pale, stubborn light that leaked through the linen curtains and refused to let Rose sleep past dawn.
She lay there, arms crossed behind her head, glaring at the ceiling as though it had personally conspired with Emerson Whitmore to invade her thoughts and sabotage her peace.
“Stupid man,” she muttered aloud, still aggravated she allowed him to steal any shed of tranquility she could garner.
But he had kissed her—kissed her—then disappeared as if she were nothing more than an idle whim or a common streetwalker.
A merchant. A trader. A man with ink under his nails and secrets beneath his tongue. What had she expected? Poetry?
She bolted up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, jaw set. “Enough,” she told herself.
It was time to remember who she was. Rose, Lady Stanford, widow of influence, mistress of conversation, possessor of many impeccable ballgowns, and a current patroness (along with a countess and duchess) of a household filled with extraordinary young women who depended on them—her—to keep her wits about her.
What she was not—refused to be—was the sort of woman who lost her composure over a man who likely thought proper cutlery was optional. No matter how attractive—
Her head dropped, eyes squeezed tight.
Inhaling deeply through her nose, she stood and crossed to the window. Fine! The man was attractive. So was the Marquis of Shufflebottom, and that fop certainly didn’t rule her life. Her thoughts. Her body.
A shiver skittered up her spine, and she touched her lips as if Mr. Whitmore’s very own brushed them.
She looked out at the countryside beyond, still damp from the night’s mist. The Chiltern Hills rose like the soft edges of Antonia’s painted scene that hung in her drawing room.
Lovely. Peaceful. Entirely unsuited to brooding.
Right. No more brooding.
She had come to Amersham to visit Antonia, yes, but also to remind herself of the Adventurous Rose…and that woman’s original purpose. She couldn’t believe she’d forgotten.
It was time to locate the Earl of Hallandale, the real heir, and set her cap for him. She’d almost prefer he didn’t possess broad shoulders, white teeth, and firm lips.
She’d danced around the idea long enough. No more distractions. No more sultry glances from men with merchant blood and inconvenient mouths.
A proper earl. A duke would be better, but yes, a proper earl would suffice. Someone who would restore her confidence, back her influence, and offer if not affection, then at least admiration. She would be a countess. Not a scandal.
She rang for Jane.
“Good morning, my lady.”
“I must dress,” Rose said. “I wish to return to London.”
Jane swallowed. “Of course, my lady.”
Today was a new day. The Adventurous Rose reasserted herself with stern resolve.
This had been but a minor setback. Upon her return to London, she would begin again.
Find Lord Hallandale and marry him. She didn’t care if he had a paunch as huge as the King’s or was missing his front teeth!
Emerson Whitmore could go back to being nothing more than an unfortunate curiosity she would soon forget.
She was positively certain.
Almost.
~~~
“Emerson.”
He was too exhausted for dreams, or nightmares, or interruptions of any sort.
“Emerson.” The voice penetrated more urgent.
It took a moment for him to pry his eyes apart and adjust. A glance toward the windows gave no indication as to the time of day, certainly not with the slashing rain—
Time of day? He bolted up. “What time is it?” he growled.
Ben straightened. “Half past three.”
Emerson pushed upright. “Three?”
A dull ache throbbed behind Emerson’s temples as the fog of sleep slowly lifted.
“You’ve a missive.” Ben held out a folded sheet of foolscap. “Yates didn’t wish to disturb you. I, of course, don’t possess a shred of guilt in doing so.”
Cold unease pierced Emerson’s chest. He reached for the note and broke the fold and read.
Mr. Whitmore,
You have been warned and have chosen not to heed my sage advice. Therefore, I must inure greater prudence in future. Lady Stanford moves about London with admirable freedom. T’would be a pity were that freedom curtailed by circumstances beyond her control.
Attend to your own affairs, sir, and cease your inquiries. You will find this advice greatly to her benefit.
Emerson read it again. Then a third time. Dread and a red haze of fury took him by the throat.
“Emerson, what is it?” The concern from Ben barely penetrated as the air in the room seemed to tighten.
“Who delivered it?” he asked quietly.
Ben shook his head. “Street lad. Gone before Yates could question him.”
Emerson folded the paper with deliberate care. “Have the carriage brought around.”
Ben’s brows lifted. “Where are we going?”
Emerson rose from the bed, furious with himself. How could he have fallen asleep? “You are going nowhere. I, it appears, will be traveling to Buckinghamshire.”
“Good God. What the devil is in—ah, the masquerade lady…” he said, nodding.
Scowling, Emerson doused his face with cold water, snatched up a towel and swiped it over his face, then tossed the towel aside. “The carriage, if you please.”
Amir entered without so much as a tap at the door. “I heard voices.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?” Emerson demanded.
“Because the lady has returned home,” Amir responded so calmly Emerson’s teeth hurt from gnashing them.
“Never mind the carriage,” he told Ben. “I’ll take a horse.”