Chapter Twenty-Five
Twenty-Five
Emerson strode from Stanford house and stole through the back garden to the mews and took possession of his horse from a sleepy groom.
The rain failed to wash away her scent that still clung to his body. All orange blossom and righteous fury. He directed his horse past the door he’d exited through rather than the window he’d entered, cursing himself for having forgotten to don a hat.
Damn. Damn her.
He was doing the right thing. Her safety meant everything. The thought shifted the axis he’d built his world on. He should have stayed, forced her to listen, to understand. But explaining something he didn’t understand himself would have only had him digging the hole deeper.
The finality in her voice—quiet, composed, remote—hurt. He rubbed a hand over his chest. The end was inevitable—she wouldn’t have heard a word he said. He’d told her it was too dangerous. Told her he’d find another way.
And all she’d done was tilt her head in that ducal manner that had been ingrained in her since birth and handed him his coat. The chill in the October day seeped through to his bones.
Then it hit him.
Not only had she not listened. She’d ushered him into a trap. And he’d waltzed right in, led by the nose as if attached to a leather strip tied to a diamond collar. Easily so.
Emerson picked up his pace like a wolf denied its prey. Rose Stanford had likely never agreed to anything in her life without argument, especially not when she believed herself right. She was fighting for some unseen cause, and he’d waved the red flag before her lovely deep-green eyes.
She’d go to the Peachornsby ball. Of course she would. And once there, she would do exactly what he’d told her not to—search the marquess’s study.
He could picture it now: her in some striking crimson silk, all fire and purpose, slipping away from the ballroom crush like a duchess with a dagger beneath her bodice.
Not even bothering to wait for the shadows to cooperate.
She’d dive headlong into danger with nothing but wit and a pair of embroidered slippers.
“Bloody hell,” he hissed, picking up his steps.
If she was going to storm a lion’s den dressed like temptation, someone would have to keep her from getting eaten.
He could engage her brother, but that would only alienate her more.
Emerson reached 10 Manchester and strode through the foyer, barking for Yates.
He entered the hall from the dining room. “Sir?”
“Is my brother about?” Emerson demanded.
“Mr. Massey dressed and mentioned he would be at his club.”
With a sharp incline of his head, Emerson exhaled through his nose. “If he returns, detain him. I must speak with him immediately,” he said. “I don’t suppose he mentioned which club?”
“No, sir.”
“I won’t be let in past the door at White’s,” he growled to no one in particular.
“Not dressed like a common beggar,” Amir blithely informed him from atop the stairs. “Not that White’s is necessary. Mr. Massey mentioned I inform you he would be at the Green Room.”
Emerson glanced down at his now muddied boots and wrinkled pantaloons. “Good God.” He took the stairs up by two. Thankfully, the house had been outfitted for a tub room, so there would be no waiting for hot water.
Within an hour, Emerson entered a narrow, unassuming Georgian townhouse, wedged between a music shop and a purveyor of theatrical wigs. A discreet brass plaque by the door read GRC. After dark, a red-shaded lantern would glow faintly above the entry.
Inside, Emerson found the noise almost intolerable.
The main hall on the ground floor was notably referred to as the Gallery.
He walked through a long corridor where not-so-precisely spaced playbills hung along the wall, interspersed with caricatures of famous actors and oil portraits of club patrons caught mid-debauch, that led to a long, velvet-draped room with a sagging ceiling that held the faint scent of spilled brandy and orange peel.
On one end, a fireplace smoldered, above which hung a crooked portrait of Shakespeare winking that someone had added in charcoal.
The dim lighting of mostly wall sconces flickered.
What candelabras there were set about dripped wax like stalactites.
He found a back set of stairs that led to the second floor and strode to a room referred to as the Library.
It was quieter here, but not by much. Several seating groupings allowed for more intimate visits.
A table of raucous laughter near the fireplace brought Emerson’s head up. Ben sat in the corner that faced the whole of the vast room. It was the chair Emerson would have chosen for himself.
Thank God.
Slowly, the clinking of glasses paused, and four pairs of eyes, outside of Ben’s, turned to Emerson.
“Well, well, well, Massey,” Colliers said to Ben. “It appears your big brother is here to whisk you to safer company than that which you currently dwell.”
This drew a laugh from his other cronies about the table: Stockton, Lampert, and Gorman. They were all clearly sloshed. A grim smile touched Ben’s mouth. “Is that what you’re here to do, Emerson? Sweep me away?” he asked mildly.
Emerson met his brother’s eyes.
From the upstarts?
Emerson read the message in his eyes and managed to contain a smile.
Ben slammed his tankard on the table and shoved himself away. “Well, fellows, I’ll see you tonight at Peachornsby’s, then.”
The upstarts roared with more drunken laughter, leaving Emerson to wonder if they’d be sober enough to attend.
Emerson followed Ben out a rear entrance to the mews that were once used as a set of private stables and carriage houses for the gentry who frequented Covent Garden.
Currently, it appeared as a blend of coach storage, theatrical deliveries, and possibly discreet assignations.
Really, just general mischief. Afternoon had fallen and was easing into early evening.
He cast his gaze about and saw no one in the direct vicinity except a mangy orange cat eyeing a morsel. “I need you to get me into Peachornsby’s tonight.” The eerie whinny of a single horse sounded between the narrow stone walls. “Where’s your horse?”
“I set Spindle to watching it for me.”
Whoever that was. Impatience weaved through Emerson’s spine, but he held his tongue.
“Why do you need to attend Peachornsby’s? Not exactly your métier, is it?”
Emerson’s lips tightened. He would have to own the matter. “I fear my masquerade lady will take matters into her own hands if I am not there to stop her.”
A quick grin showed his brother’s teeth gleaming in the gloom.
“So…that’s how it is.” Ben pulled a cheroot from his waistcoat and lit it.
“You can’t arrive with me. Stockton, Collier, and Gorman will know immediately something is afoot.
Which, incidentally, I learned they didn’t attend the races in Sussex after all. ”
“What do you mean?”
“I believe they visited Hallandale’s. I find the information highly suspicious.”
Emerson nearly groaned. He hadn’t time for this conversation. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” he growled. “Right now, I need to find a way into Peachornsby’s. And I don’t intend to be announced.”
Ben drew on the cheroot then blew out a stream of smoke. A disgusting habit. One Emerson had never taken to sport.
“Even worse,” Ben said. “If someone sees you slinking about like a footpad, they’ll think I’ve brought a thief.”
Hell, he was right.
After a tense moment, Ben sighed. “Give me five minutes to get in. Then find the path behind the conservatory.”
“And how am I to reach…” His voice trailed.
“You’ll have to enlighten me eventually, Emerson,” Ben told him mildly.
“I think I like it better when you were too soused to remember anything resembling coherence,” he muttered.
Ben’s eyes lit with amusement, but he remained quiet.
“Lady Stanford,” Emerson said through gritted teeth.
“Lady—ah, yes, well, that is a conundrum.” Ben’s tone grew much too flippant for Emerson’s liking.
He glared at him.
Ben laughed. “All right.” He lowered his voice.
“There’s a side entrance. Tell the footman you’re Mr. Phipps and there is an emergency for me.
He owes me six guineas and a favor. We’ll tell him you must speak to me privately.
In the meantime, I’ll locate Lady Stanford for you and drag her kicking and screaming to the library. ”
The vice gripping Emerson’s chest released. “I somehow doubt you shall have to drag her kicking and screaming. Not to the library. I half suspect that is exactly where you’ll find her.” He started for the side of the building, but Ben stopped him.
“Oh, and, uh, Emerson, might I suggest upgrading your attire?” The amusement in Ben’s voice sliced through him.
He glanced down. Jesus. “Of course.” He had a miracle to construct and not much time to enact it. Lucky for him, Amir was a miracle worker.