Chapter Twenty-Three
Twenty-Three
Rose entered the entryway of Stanford House, her gloves still damp from the carriage ride, her mind sharp with purpose. She’d spent the journey from Amersham drafting a note in her head—one she intended to send to Hallandale’s solicitor before the day was out.
Discarding her coat, gloves, and bonnet—in that order—she handed them off to Winston without looking up.
“Tea, please, and a quick repast. I’m famished. I’m behind on my correspondence, and shall be in the library. You may have the tray brought there—”
“Lady Stanford,” Winston interrupted. His voice carried that ever-so-slight haughtiness that set her teeth on edge. It took her back to the early days of her disastrous marriage. It could also mean he’d been holding back something important.
She blinked at him, seeing the paper in his hand. “What is it?”
“It’s Mr. Whitmore, my lady. He’s been, er, persistent.”
“Persistent?” Her heart stuttered, but she drew on her ducal upbringing and raised her brows, taking the missive. Ha! “I’ve no wish to see him, Winston.”
He let out a sigh. “He’s called three times, my lady. Once to leave a letter. Twice to inquire if you’d returned. As I said, most insistent.”
“Ridiculous. I’ve been gone but one night.”
“Yes, Lady Stanford. I received your note late yesterday.”
Rose broke the seal and unfolded the missive of fine vellum, glancing at the strong, sharp, neat hand.
She didn’t need to read the whole thing to gather the meaning’s entirety.
Emerson Whitmore had made himself clear enough the last time they’d spoken—commanding her to meet him, then vanishing without explanation.
She crumpled the note in her fist and addressed Winston.
“Should Mr. Whitmore return, inform him I am not receiving callers.” She swept toward the stairs. “Now, luncheon, if you please.”
Upon entering her bedchamber, she tossed his note in the fire, taking some satisfaction in the deed.
Jane was retrieving an attractive day dress of cream and green stripes with gold thread.
Rose kicked off her shoes and wriggled her toes.
How tempting to discard her stockings and go about barefoot.
But that would likely send Winston into an apoplectic fit, and one dead body in the last year was more than enough for her. A delicate shutter rippled over her.
Jane slipped the dress over her head, then fussed with her hair. “This is such a flattering color for you, my lady.”
“Thank you, Jane. I believe the Peachornsby fete is tonight.”
“Ah, yes. ’Tis a shame you haven’t time to do something with the bronze silk, my lady.”
Rose didn’t even want to think about that blasted bolt. “I’ll wear the navy velvet this evening.” It was close enough to mourning colors without flaunting her well-deserved, if sadly enforced, independence in any of the matrons’ pinched faces.
“Yes, my lady.”
After checking her appearance in the mirror, and with just the slightest regrets that she’d given up on Mr. Whitmore, she snatched up her shawl, lifted her chin, and descended to the library.
Despite Winston’s thinly veiled disapproval of her, he was most prompt.
Her lunch, complete with steaming tea, awaited her on the desk.
She poured a cup and nibbled on a small meat pie after taking the chair behind the desk.
With a deep breath, Rose opened the inkwell and retrieved a couple of clean sheets of vellum to begin the lengthy process of drafting her letter to Hallandale’s solicitors regarding their mysterious client.
She dipped her pen, and hesitated.
To whom it may concern…
No, too impersonal.
Dear Sir,
I write to inquire as to the present whereabouts and general condition of the new Earl of Hallandale…
She paused, biting the inside of her cheek.
It sounded so cold. So…mercenary. But what else could she say?
She could hardly admit her true reasons for wanting to meet the man.
It was too ridiculous to admit anything so emotional as hope.
And yet that was what the true nature was.
Lord Hallandale represented protection. Stability.
A future unmarred by scandal or uncertainty.
Could she sound any more like a light-skirt?
So, what? she chastised herself. Did she truly wish to be alone for the rest of her life?
Her pen scratched on.
For the purposes of establishing a distant family connection, as I believe our mothers were related through the Ashleys of Yorkshire. Should the earl be amenable, I would be pleased to meet him socially. —Lady G. Marchwood.
It was a lie, of course. There were no Ashleys of Yorkshire. But the solicitor wouldn’t know that unless he thought to check Debrett’s. And how likely was that?
If Hallandale had a shred of decency, he would agree to a meeting. A foot in the door to Society. Yes, she would introduce him about. She was excellent at that sort of thing.
She read back through her note. Then, with a sharp nod, she sanded the ink and folded the paper. Oh, dear, but who to send it to? She went to the bookcase and found her latest copy of Debrett’s and lugged it back to the desk.
Most families, in her opinion, retained their solicitors without ever replacing them. Perhaps that would be the case here. In a matter of minutes, she found what she was looking for. Sussex. His seat was in Sussex.
HALLANDALE, Earl of
Created 1714…
Family Seat: Winthrop Park, East Sussex…
Legal affairs administered by Hawking & Berridge, Solicitors, Gough Square, London.
Her fingers trembled, and the hair on her neck raised.
George Percival Massey, sixth Earl of Hallandale, deceased 1822.
Dead, it said plainly. Oscar Percival Massey, styled Viscount Monclair, currently abroad.
And that tidy line about the solicitors: Inquiries regarding the Hallandale estate may be directed to Hawking & Berridge, Solicitors, Gough Square, London.
Was she really going to do this, so bold a step? She was the new Adventurous Rose, wasn’t she?
Triumph curled warm in her chest. No name meant uncertainty. No wife meant possibility. And now, thanks to the helpful precision of Debrett’s, she had a name, an address, and just enough nerve to proceed.
She closed the book with a soft thump. She dropped it on the desk and reached for her stationery, quickly penning the address atop.
“Winston,” she called out. “Have this sent immediately. Quietly. No footmen chatter.”
Winston gave her a slow, deliberate bow. “Of course, my lady.”
As he left, Rose drew her shawl around her shoulders and gazed out the rain-streaked window. She imagined the earl—faceless, unknown—reading her letter and deciding her fate. And what of Mr. Whitmore?
Then chastised herself, again. As if he mattered an iota.
But the part of her that still remembered his hands, his voice, his kiss—those parts of her brain hadn’t received the edict, resolving her determination to put him from her mind.
Forever.
~~~
“Finally,” Emerson muttered as he stepped down from the curb, his eyes fixed on the returning Stanford carriage disappearing into the mews.
He strode across the street and mounted the steps, frustration driving his determination.
This was the fourth time he’d called. His patience was worn threadbare, and with good reason—she was avoiding him.
The muscles in his stomach coiled to a tight spring, ready to thrust forward at the slightest touch.
The knocker fell with the force of his fury. The door opened a moment later, and the footman’s expression fell.
“Er, sir—”
Ah, so the boy knew exactly who stood in the foyer. “Mr. Emerson Whitmore to see Lady Stanford,” Emerson said coolly, brushing past him.
The boy was no match for Emerson’s determination. Before Emerson could take the stairs and find his elusive little gem, Winston appeared, gliding down the curving staircase, carrying a silver tray that held a single missive, with all the solemnity of a man about to defend a drawbridge.
“Mr. Whitmore,” he intoned. “Lady Stanford is engaged and has left strict instructions she is not to be disturbed.”
“Is that so?” Emerson returned with a tight smile.
“Per my mistress’s instruction, I must insist you leave. I should deplore having to call the constable.” Winston was as stubborn as said mistress.
Emerson found his actions somewhat reassuring. After a long moment, he inclined his head. “Of course. If I may leave my card?”
Winston hesitated, then said, “Very well.”
Emerson pulled one from his pocket, all the while keeping a covert eye on the missive.
Winston turned toward the side table and set the tray aside.
The handwriting, definitely feminine, pierced him with a shot of lust. Until he caught sight of its intended destination…
Hawking & Berridge, Gough Square.
His jaw tightened. The Hallandale solicitors. He schooled his features then handed over his card—staid cream cardstock with his name, his company’s name, and location of his warehouse. These new ones also held his Mayfair location of Manchester Square.
“I shall ensure Lady Stanford receives your card at first opportunity.”
Which meant…he might. Emerson offered a cordial nod and turned to leave.
Inside, something cold had taken root.
Rose was writing to the solicitors. His and Benjamin’s solicitors.
Blast it, she was trying to find Hallandale. Of course, he’d predicted such.
But as the door closed behind him and the drizzle dampened his face again, his calm evaporated. He stepped briskly down the steps, down the walk, and through the wisteria arched gate, crossing to his waiting horse.
Hawking’s offices in Gough Square,” Emerson bit out to himself. “How resourceful of you, my lady.”
Gough Square wasn’t far. Hawking & Berridge wasn’t the sort of place that opened letters lightly upon request. But Emerson had the upper hand—he was the one who not only paid their wages, he did so in a timely manner.
He tapped the horse’s flanks, hard this time. “Faster.”
Minutes later, Emerson secured a boy to watch his mount, then entered the narrow, high-ceilinged chamber tucked into the east wing of the Gough Square administrative building.
The place would be perpetually dim no matter the hour.
With a sharp nod to the clerk sitting between two closed doors behind him, Emerson strode to Hawking’s, tapped once, ignoring the clerk’s sharp gasp, then opened the door to walls lined with shelves crammed full of ledgers, receipts, correspondence, and small locked boxes, each meticulously labeled in Hawking’s sharp hand.
A single tall window admitted light through gauzy muslin curtains, yellowed with age.
His desk—a scarred mahogany monstrosity—dominated the room. It bore the weight of order: no loose papers, no inkwells tipped askew, no quills left to wander. A leather blotter, precisely aligned, marked the center, flanked by a set of brass scales and a locking cash drawer embedded in the wood.
A clock ticked somberly from a mantelpiece, and the only ornament was a faded silhouette portrait of a woman—his mother, perhaps, or a wife long gone—tucked discreetly behind the ledgers. The room smelled of pipe smoke, sealing wax, and old paper—the scent of bureaucracy.
Hawking, a wiry man in his late fifties with thinning gray hair swept neatly back from a high brow, rose elegantly from his chair—nothing seemed to rattle the man.
“Mr. Whitmore, I wasn’t aware we had an appointment.
” His manner was precise, his clothing just shy of threadbare, and his shoes shined to an obsessive degree.
His erect posture gave an appearance habitually braced against nonsense.
Emerson dispensed with the niceties, going straight to the point. “Lady Stanford is sending over a missive as we speak.”
Hawking’s narrow face was sharpened by years of discretion and flinty blue eyes that missed little.
“I, er, don’t wish her courier to catch sight of me—”
“You realize, of course, ethically I’m obligated to keep any information sent to me confidential.”
Yes, Emerson knew that. “Obviously,” he said, inclining his head. “But I’ve uncovered information that has me concerned she may have placed herself in imminent danger—”
His words were cut short by the clerk’s knock.
“That will be the courier,” Emerson said softly. He moved to a shadowed corner and looked out the window, hands clasped loosely at his back, watching the fog settle into the square, confident Hawking would take his words to heart.
The door creaked open.
The clerk’s eyes flicked to Emerson then back to Hawking. “Sir, a courier to see you. He’s been instructed to hand you the post personally.”
“I’ll be there directly,” Hawking said.
Nodding, the clerk closed the door, latching it softly.
Hawking pierced Emerson with another sharp look, then stepped into the outer portion of the office.
Emerson could only discern the low murmurings, but failed to make out the words. Seconds later, Hawking returned with the damning missive in his bony, ink-stained fingers.
Hawking broke the seal and skimmed the text. His head rose, and the crease between his brows was deep. “You say Lady Stanford penned this missive?”
“Of course,” Emerson snapped. “I just left her residence.”
“This missive is penned by a Lady Marchwood.”
“Who the hell is Lady Marchwood?”
“An excellent question,” Hawking said with a slightly curled lip. “But she appears to be a cousin of your family.”
“Nonsense.” But Emerson paused. “How can we verify if there is an actual Marchwood?”
The solicitor refolded the missive and slipped it in his pocket. It was quite insulting. But Emerson was forced to let it go.
“I shall do some checking into the matter. If I find that there is no such person, I shall share the contents at that time.”
Emerson let out a sharp, dry snort. “Be sure to verify that seal. I think you’ll find it belongs to the late Baron Stanford.”
Hawking inclined his head. “Noted. Should I expect more correspondence?”
Emerson strode to the door, frustration pulsing through him, but paused. “If she decides to pursue this nonsense further, yes. For now, I shall set her straight on the matter.”
With that, he stormed from the office to the square. He took possession of his horse from across the cobblestones. It was just his luck the heavens had decided to christen him with a deluge.