Chapter 32
Thirty-Two
Rose waited with undue patience for the footman to open the carriage door. Emerson was immediately there to assist her inside.
Half in and half out, she froze until Emerson hit her bum, startling her forward.
She mustered her dignity and took the seat across from a younger, brighter-eyed, curls-too-artfully-tumbled-for-accident man who, while he didn’t look precisely like Emerson, certainly shared the squared jaw and roman-esq nose.
His grin was instant and, at once, disarming.
“Good evening, sir.” She spoke pleasantly, and before Emerson could bark out any of his usual brusque nonsense.
The stranger executed a mocking half bow from the seat opposite her. “Benjamin Massey, at your service, Lady Stanford. Though most people call me Ben, and some people”—he flicked a look at Emerson—“call me worse.”
Her gaze darted to Emerson.
“My, er, brother,” Emerson said, looking as though he’d rather hurl the younger man out the door. Preferably after the rig set in motion.
Ben’s grin widened.
Rose drew in a sharp breath as she caught the timbre of his voice, deep and edged with amusement. Recognition prickled her spine. “The masquer—” She clamped a gloved hand over her mouth.
The faint glow of the lamp illuminated more humor when he shot Emerson another look. “Ah, the Shufflebottom do. Emerson mentioned you.”
“Oh? How…nice.” Rose said, butterflies wreaking havoc.
Emerson’s jaw clenched. “Lady Stanford, I would advise not taking anything that emerges from this upstart’s mouth.”
Ben smirked. “Now, now. That’s no way to speak of one’s own blood. Even if he prefers to disown me in front of attractive women.”
Rose’s brows arched, though she was pleased beyond words. “Hmm. Attractive.”
Ben grinned outright, the charm about him a bright colorful aura. “Indubitably. I am in line for the Hallandale earldom, you know.”
“Ah. Oh, yes, Viscount Monclair, the missing earl,” she said softly.
“Yes. He hasn’t been seen in quite some time,” Ben said with sudden contriteness.
He was charming, and young. Sadly, too young for her. “How old are you?” she blurted out. A flash of heat flamed her face. Apparently, Adventurous Rose was blessed with blatant rudeness. She cleared her throat. “Um, my apologies, Mr. Massey. I’m not usually so forward.”
Emerson grunted and rolled his eyes, but otherwise remained silent.
Ben laughed outright, delighted. “I quite like her, Emerson.” He turned back to Rose. “I’m five and twenty, my lady. Plenty old enough to take a bride.”
Laughter bubbled through Rose too. “Indeed, you are, sir,” she murmured, noting Emerson’s clenched fist on his knee.
“Are you in the market for a husband, then, my lady?”
She’d never been a flirt. Not like her youngest sister, but something irresistible came over her and she fluttered her lashes at him. “I certainly could be.”
“I’m charmed, Lady Stanford. Quite charmed.”
Emerson cleared his throat. A sound decisively agitated. “Perhaps you can enlighten us more on the Harlowes’ event, Lady Stanford.” There was an edge to his tone that had Rose sitting straighter.
He couldn’t possibly be…jealous. With the assistance of passing gaslights that flickered in from the cobbled streets, she studied him covertly. “Is something amiss, Mr. Whitmore?”
“Er, no, Lady Stanford. Please.” He turned his gaze out the window. To avoid his brother’s keen eyes? Her?
No matter. Harlowe’s was not far. This benefit was her doing. The night belonged to her. “Of course. Well, I believe that this evening’s event should elicit a generosity of funds that will go toward Hope House.”
Ben grinned. “Oh, Emerson’s quite aware, my lady.” Even narrowed and turned on Emerson, Mr. Massey’s eyes lit with humor. “I’m pretty sure my brother will level a hefty draft for the cause. He’s likely speaking of the Harlowes themselves.”
A touch of naughtiness trickled through Rose in keeping with Mr. Massey’s obvious mischievousness. “Ah, yes, well, it’s a deliciously colorful story, Mr. Whitmore.”
“My favorite kind,” Mr. Massey said.
In a lowered conspiratorial tone, Rose embraced Gabriella’s dramatic flair.
“Viscount Harlowe is Lady Kimpton’s brother.
Some years back, Lord Harlowe disappeared, kidnapped and hidden, as the story goes, in an asylum near Colchester.
Of course, many of the details were suppressed.
But it was said he’d lost his memory for some time. ”
“Good God.” Emerson turned his eyes from the windows and on her, shocked. Well. She had his attention now, didn’t she. “Who on earth kidnapped him?”
“The votes are still out on exactly whom, but it was either the late Lord Maudsley, now dead, or Lord Griston, who has since been committed to Bedlam.” She shuddered.
“Neither one of which could be considered good ton.” Rose warmed to her topic with this new audience.
“What’s truly interesting is the house in which the Harlowes reside. ”
“More interesting than a kidnapped lord?” Emerson sounded skeptical.
She laughed and smoothed her gloved hands over her cloak.
“It’s a complicated story, as I said, but years ago, Lord Maudsley had a baby and killed the mother of said child—his first wife.
The child’s nursemaid overheard the entire exchange and ran away with the child.
To keep them from starving, she, the, um, nursemaid…
er, well, she was forced to take to the streets.
In any event, she raised the child as her sister. ”
“That’s quite a fantastic story, Lady Stanford,” Emerson said as if she were recounting a horrid fairy tale.
“Yes, well, there’s more. At some point, the nursemaid became quite the notorious courtesan.
” The heat in Rose’s face grew infernal, but she’d started this tale.
Besides, it was dark. Perhaps they couldn’t see.
“Years later, Harlowe married the stolen child. I forget her name, but she became enceinte and Harlowe was abducted before the birth of his baby. Sadly, the mother of said child perished before Harlowe was found and nursed back to health by his current wife, Maeve. They now live in the famous courtesan’s home in Cavendish Square.
It was quite the scandal at the time…” she finished weakly.
“That was only a few years back, wasn’t it?” Ben said thoughtfully. “I remember. It was all over Eton, as Harlowe was sent there by Kimpton. Some years before me, but of course, the tale was still bandied about at that time.”
“I believe the Harlowes married in ’18.” Rose sighed. “I admit, I’ve found the story somewhat romantic.”
Emerson snorted. “Romantic?” He shook his head. “And Lady Harlowe doesn’t mind raising her husband’s child from that previous marriage?”
“To the contrary,” she retorted staunchly. “They’ve been adopting wayward children from the streets. It’s much more brave than I could do.”
“I have my sincere doubts on that score, Lady Stanford,” Emerson said, lips curling. “After all, you are doing a fine job in filling Hope House of late. Almost single-handedly.”
~~~
Emerson swallowed a curse and slipped his hand into the pocket of his greatcoat, fingering the dainty handkerchief he couldn’t seem to leave behind, thinking.
It didn’t sound as if this Harlowe character was one to slip a blackmail note into someone’s pocket, but one could never be sure of another’s motivations.
His lips compressed at the thought of the coming night…
but he took refuge in the fact that he didn’t truly have to interact with the peerage.
He could focus his attention on Rose and locating the nob’s office to absolve Emerson’s doubt that the viscount hadn’t sent the last note he’d received.
His fingers tightened on his knee, recalling the most damning of the bastards words.
Your baroness makes quite the tempting prize, does she not? Keep her close…if you can.
He glanced at Rose where the low amber light made her skin glow. How was he to keep her safe? How?
By staying at her side. It was the only choice left to him. The possibility he could twirl her in his arms rippled through him. He hadn’t danced in years, but his fingers tingled at the thought of spinning her in a waltz before others.
Of course he’d taken lessons. His father had required it of him. It had been a fairness issue regarding Ben, their father had told him. Looking back, Emerson recalled his brother pitching a fit that if Emerson didn’t attend lessons, then Ben shouldn’t have to either.
Gloved fingers tapped the hand clutching his knee. “Are you sure all is well, Mr. Whitmore?” The way his name tripped off her tongue, even the “mister” portion, had him wishing his brother were anywhere but in the carriage with them.
Emerson’s eyes shot to Ben and the small smile on his shadowed face that appeared more a smirk in the low light.
“Of course I am, my lady. Whyever would I not be?” he said gruffly.
She snatched her hand away, and Ben’s smile broadened.
“My brother has been under a tremendous amount of strain. Something to do with his business at the docks,” Ben said for him.
That annoyed the hell out of Emerson. “Ben, I’m sure Lady Stanford has no interest in speaking of a merchant’s doings.”
“To the contrary, Mr. Whitmore.” Something akin to accusation and disappointment crossed her features as she turned her gaze away and out the window to the wet night.
The streets were clogged with carriages, slowing their progress to Cavendish Square.
Her answer might have pleased him had her expression not disturbed him so.
Oh, to be able to leap from the moving vehicle to the mucked streets. But the risk of leaving her to her own devices—especially after her idiocy in Whitefriars—was inconceivable.
Then again, if she insisted on tethering him to Society’s leash, she must bear the consequences of his presence. Constant presence.
And he, hers. Hers of orange blossom, spring, and prickly as thorns. Hybrid indeed.
The carriage drew up before Cavendish House, and Emerson jumped out the door, his boots hitting the gravel before it came to a complete stop.
From the carriage box, Amir handed down an umbrella, reminding Emerson of the misting rain.
He pushed it open and handed it to Ben with a silent command to hold it over Lady Stanford’s head.
Emerson swept her off her cream-silk slippers before they could touch the ground and carried her to the portico.
A small gasp sounded from behind, and he swiveled about—Lord and Lady Huntley.
Lady Huntley’s gloved hand covered her mouth, but her eyes sparkled from the light spilling from the open door. So…an ally?
Just over Lady Huntley’s shoulder, he caught sight of the Duke and Duchess of Ryleigh. He barely covered his groan.
Ben, having followed at a more leisurely pace, had closed the umbrella and was handing it to a footman.
Emerson turned to Rose and held out his arm. There was a moment’s hesitation where their eyes met before she accepted the offering.
Once inside, Emerson handed off his greatcoat and adjusted his cravat with deliberate care when what he truly desired was to rip it away.
Rose unbuttoned her ermine-trimmed cloak, and the footman assisted her out of it, and Emerson froze—
Her gown caught the light like the edge of a blade.
Bronze silk, the very bolt he’d sent to her house. It was hardly recognizable. But recognize it, he did, as the fabric molded to her figure as if it had been waiting all its life for her. The sheen shifted with each movement, one instant molten copper, the next the dusky shimmer of aged brandy.
The low, square neckline revealed the elegant line of her throat and the faintest swell of her breasts, framed by delicate embroidery that glimmered like fireflies in the softly candlelit foyer.
Sleeves of gauze whispered over her arms, lending her the air of some elemental creature risen from the forge—untouchable, dangerous, and devastatingly beautiful.
Emerson’s lungs forgot their purpose. He had meant to stride into the Harlowe soiree like a man on a mission, cool and collected.
Instead, he stood rooted to the floor beneath his feet, his chest tight, struck by the shocking knowledge that he had clothed her.
He had chosen this color, this sheen, and the result nearly brought him to his knees.
Beside him, Ben’s low chuckle barely penetrated the sudden fogging of his usually well-ordered, pragmatic thoughts.
“Well, brother,” he murmured, “if you planned to escape this evening unscathed, I’d say your battle is already lost.” He nudged Emerson forward.
“Move. You’re blocking the doorway,” he whispered, jarring Emerson into motion.
He held out his arm again. “Lady Stanford.” His voice was a gravelly shadow of his normal tone. “Shall we?”
With a small, tentative smile, shy really, she inclined her head and laid her over-the-elbow satin-gloved hand atop his.