Chapter 35
Thirty-Five
The rest of the evening was barely tolerable.
Rose wasn’t sure how she’d managed it. In fact, she hadn’t, having spent more time in the retiring room fanning her face that was much too hot on such a cold night.
So much time, her sister had searched her out and demanded to know if Emerson had hurt her.
Hurt her? No, if that kiss was any inclination.
He’d rattled her beyond anything reasonable.
She couldn’t leave the Harlowes’ soiree soon enough.
Of course, she’d been stuck when Sebastian cornered her.
“What is this notion of you going to the docks?” he demanded.
“Sebastian, lower your voice. I am a widow of independent means. And you will not talk to me as if I am a child,” she hissed hotly.
Her stoic brother snapped his mouth shut, breathed in through his nose, and let it out slowly. “Rose, the docks are a dangerous place. It’s also been bandied about that you were nearly accosted by a man who goes by the ridiculous name of Billy the Buster.”
Oh, dear. He’d learned of her jaunt to Whitmore’s Warehouse. She patted his chest. “I was perfectly safe, Seb. Come, we must dance.” It was the best distraction she had at hand, and really, how could he say no? She took his arm. He was much too proper to make a scene.
He did narrow his gaze on her, then shook his head. “You seem to be changing before my eyes. Very well, as my wife seems to have—who the devil is she dancing with?”
Rose glanced across the room and bit back a grin as Sebastian led her to the floor. “Um, that is Mr. Whitmore, of Whitmore’s Wholesale Warehouse,” she informed him.
The music picked up for a lively country dance that kept further conversation at bay. She had no desire explaining anything to him regarding her current life. He was right about one thing—she was changing. To what degree remained to be seen.
Explaining “Billy” to him was out of the question. Just the memory of it gave her the shivers. Still, despite that unfortunate run-in, Adventurous Rose had risen to the occasion in spectacular glory. And that she was quite proud of.
Come midnight, Rose found herself in the dark corner of Emerson’s carriage, wondering how she’d gotten there as it appeared she was moving about in a fog.
Her feet ached, in fact her whole body ached.
The cobblestones jostling her about didn’t help matters.
Lamplit shadows sliced through the windows and across the harsh angles of Emerson’s unreadable face.
It resembled nothing of the intensity he’d unleashed on her in Harlowe’s office. Her lips still tingled from his kiss that had her nearly slipping into a puddle at his feet.
Rose folded her gloved hands tightly in her lap, trying desperately not to let the word irreplaceable echo in her chest. Foolish word. Dangerous word. And marriage—
“Anything odd regarding Collier and Gorman?” Emerson directed to Ben, his tone clipped and stern, piercing the darkness.
Ben’s brows rose, and his eyes shot to her. “I did not realize we were speaking so freely before Lady Stanford.”
Indignation whipped through her. “If you mean to whisper secrets over my head, sir, you may as well dismiss me altogether.” She winced at her tone, sharper than she’d intended. After a long pause, she sighed. “Since my hearing is already compromised, perhaps you should answer your brother.”
Surprise fleeted Emerson’s face that shifted into a quick grin. It softened his hardened features, devastating her heart.
Ben’s eyes flicked between her and Emerson. “All right,” he said slowly. “Considering last month Gorman could barely pay his wine account, I find it peculiar that he’s been throwing coin about as though he’s landed a goose that lays golden eggs.”
Emerson leaned back, taking up most of the bench beside her, his heat warming her from shoulder to ankle. “That is odd. You think he may have pegged another to blackmail? We certainly haven’t given in to any demands.”
“If he’s the one sending you those notes,” Ben pointed out.
“Yes. If.” Emerson drummed his fingers on his knee. “What about Collier or Lambert? Anything there?”
“No. The three of them were acting cocky as ever. I had no desire to speak with any of them. Though…” He looked out the window.
“He…they…kept watching me. Smiling as if they knew something I didn’t.
” He turned back to Emerson, his expression quite fierce.
“It’s imperative we locate Oscar, Emerson. I fear for his safety.”
Rose frowned. “Have you seen him, then? The viscount, I mean? You haven’t mentioned him since…” Her voice trailed away, her gaze darting to Ben.
“Since when?” Emerson eyed her with a glint of suspicion.
Irritation fluttered through her. “Since the, er, masquerade,” she blurted. “When you showed me the first note?”
His expression smoothed out, followed by a short grunt. “With all that has happened since that unfortunate night, I’d forgotten.”
The breath stopped in her throat. Her lungs hurt. But neither brother seemed to realize, no oxygen flowed in the carriage.
“Emerson believes if anything happens to our cousin,” Ben went on, “any hint of conjecture, the blame will fall on me as I’m next in line for the title.” He spoke with concern, not calculation, his brows furrowed, his tone weighted with unease.
Her gaze moved between Emerson and Ben. The identical expressions creased with worry.
This wasn’t about her, she realized, her hurt falling away.
It wasn’t she who was unfortunate. It was the situation regarding their cousin.
They wanted the viscount found, alive and hopefully well.
She studied Mr. Massey. He was the one who would benefit, and greatly so if the new earl…
Her admiration for him—the both of them—blossomed in her chest.
“When did you last hear anything of your cousin?” she asked softly.
“When we went to Sussex,” Ben told her. “Our old butler, Sedgewick, at Hallandale Hall mentioned Oscar had business in London, but we’ve seen or heard nothing of him.”
Her pulse quickened as Antonia’s words returned—hushed worries of her husband investigating a fronted warehouse at the docks.
What if the new earl were behind such dealings?
The possibility blazed through her like a spark catching tinder.
If Oscar Massey was entangled in schemes Tatton was looking into, then perhaps—perhaps—Emerson was not.
“Could he have something to do with a company at the docks?” she asked.
The thought both steadied and unsettled her. It relieved her mind to imagine Emerson innocent of nefarious dealings.
“We have no idea,” Emerson said. He stared at her through the darkness. “A company at the docks? That seems a very specific question, my lady.”
Rose’s heart thumped hard, but she stared back.
Ben’s hands cupped his knees, his mouth tugging into a smile. “My, my, Emerson, you’ve chosen quite the betrothed. She’ll not let you off so easy.”
“What?” The word erupted from Rose in a near squeal.
Emerson speared Ben with a glare. She clapped a hand over her mouth. Would this night never end? “Betrothed?” he said, deadly quiet.
“Well, the two of you did disappear. And it was long enough to set tongues wagging after that waltz the two of you shared that nearly set the ballroom afire.”
“Any notion on the paragon who, er, elicited this information?” Rose said faintly.
His eyes glittered with mischief. “I believe I heard something of the fact from Lady Harlowe’s mother, Lady Ingleby.”
Both Rose and Emerson groaned at once.
“Excellent,” Ben drawled, grinning. “Then I take it the rumor has some basis.”
Rose squeezed her eyes shut, willing her dignity not to crumble into sawdust at her feet.
Of all the gossips in the ton, Lady Ingleby was notably the most notorious with her cohorts, Ladies Gorman and Lockhart.
It was said that Lady Ingleby’s interference was the catapult that pushed Maeve into accepting Harlowe’s suit.
Of course, it turned out to be a love match for the ages, however it started.
“If we survive this evening without being paraded through The Morning Post, it will be a miracle,” she muttered.
Her hand was gently squeezed and let go. She opened her eyes, meeting Emerson’s. The compassion she saw there banded her chest in iron. She wasn’t sure what she saw in that intense gaze. But she was certain it was not impossible or unfortunate. And that gave her…hope.
The carriage slowed, wheels crunching against the stones, indicating they’d turned onto Upper Brook Street. Minutes later, they pulled up to Stanford House, where gaslight spilled across the portico.
As Emerson’s coachman opened the door and handed her down, Winston’s voice carried through the night air. “Off with you, girl! This is no place for vagrants.”
“What the devil?” Rose dashed through the gate to the porch—and there, huddled against one of the columns in the shadows, Rose spotted a slight figure in a plain cloak.
The young woman lifted her chin, defiant, despite the shadows under her eyes. “I knocked,” she said. “But your butler refused to admit me.”
Rose stopped. “Viola?”
Winston turned, appalled. “My lady, I—I assumed she was—”
“You assumed wrongly.” How tempting to add “as usual.” She didn’t, of course. Instead, skirts whispering against the stone, she hurried to the girl’s side. “Have a bedchamber prepared at once, Winston. And a bath drawn.”
“Yes, my lady.” After a stiff bow, he disappeared.
“Come along, Viola.”
Emerson joined them on the steps. Beside Rose, Viola froze, her eyes large as saucers. “Y-you’re that man with the cape…” she stuttered.
“Cape?”
The deepness of his voice sent a shiver of sheer masculinity swirling up Rose’s spine and lifting the hair at her nape.
“You—” Viola gulped. “You flew out of the sky and did some strange k-kick that”—she drew in a sharp inhale—“saved us.”
Rose caught the glint of amusement in Emerson’s eyes, and behind him, where Mr. Massey followed more slowly, his gaze fastened on Viola—first startled, then thoughtful, until he caught Rose watching him and quickly looked away.
“I expect we could all use a brandy.” She entered the foyer, stripping off her cloak and gloves, tossing them at the waiting footman, and led the group into the formal drawing room, where Winston had laid a blazing fire.
Emerson moved to the spirits without a word as if he own Stanford House.
Rose clasped Viola’s gloved hand. Gloved hand…Surprised at the softness of the leather, she glanced down and stopped. Slowly, she raised her eyes to Viola’s. “Might I ask where you acquired these…these magnificent gloves?”
Viola’s throat worked, though no sound emerged.
“Miss Lockhart, I asked you a question. I would appreciate an answer.”
Viola flushed, her chin lifting as though bracing for a blow. Her fingers curled tighter against the leather. “They were given to me.”
“By whom?” Rose pressed, though the answer already knifed at her heart.
Viola’s lips thinned. “By someone who understood my worth.”
The words stung like a slap. Oh, the temptation…But to cast the little termagant out now would be beyond forgivable.
Behind her, Emerson’s presence warmed her, heavy and assessing, and she caught the quick narrowing of Ben’s eyes as he studied Viola with new interest.
Rose dropped Viola’s hand as if it were afire and strode to the bell chord near the hearth and tugged it.
Winston appeared immediately. “Yes, milady?”
“Please, escort Miss Lockhart into Jane’s capable care. I’ll be along directly.”
“Yes, milady. Miss? If you’ll follow me.”
Viola’s lips compressed, but she followed Winston out, her spine rigid as a stout wooden post, without looking back.
Fury rocked Rose beyond words.
The door closed behind them while simultaneously a glass appeared in her hands.
“I seem to recognize the gloves Miss Lockhart was wearing,” Emerson said thoughtfully, appearing to study the fire reflecting in the amber contents of his glass.
“As did I,” she said on a harsh breath. “And her answer was most unsatisfactory.”
He glanced up, a wry smile touching his lips that had her stomach dropping to her toes. “Try not to toss her back into the streets. I fear your conscience would overcome you quickly, and we would find ourselves right back to where we started.”
“Argh,” she let out, her shoulders falling. “You’re likely right.”
Emerson polished off his brandy and set the glass down. “It’s time we took our leave, Lady Stanford. I shall keep you apprised on my upcoming meeting with Lady Kimpton on the morrow. Ben, shall we?”
“Er, of course.” He slugged back the entirety of his glass and followed Emerson to the door.
Emerson gently pushed his brother out, hanging back a moment, looking at her.
Rose hurried over and touched his arm, but found her voice refusing to work properly. “Emerson, I—” It cracked horribly. “I’m…not…a regrettable occurrence in your life, am I?”
“If you are, then you are the one I would choose again, whatever the cost.” His gloved fingertip traced her jaw, his lips softened. “Things will be all right, Rose. Don’t worry.”
How could she ever worry when this man took matters into his own hands? And yet, she did. “I-I shall try,” she whispered.