Chapter Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Eight
Rose had tossed and turned all night.
Sleep had come in jagged fragments, delivering visions that left her breathless and shivering. Fiery kisses stolen in shadows, chased by images of bloodstained hands. Emerson’s. Hers.
“Argh.” She pressed her palms against her temples as if they could stop her brain from the reckless phaeton ride upon which it had decided to embark. Already, Society believed them engaged. Already her name was tangled with his. To walk away now would be ruin—for her and for him.
And her body…It was no longer her own; it belonged to the memory of his touch, the strength of his arms, the heat in his eyes. The warmth—yes, irritation and fire—in his voice, whether scolding or gentle, projected a compassion she’d never experienced with Stanford. Never.
Long before his death, her husband had deserted their marriage bed for the young opera singers and actresses he could control.
Rose had never been one to hold in her opinion.
Perhaps that had been her problem. Alas, at the age of one and thirty, she had no desire to change that aspect of her personality, even were she able.
How fragile everything seemed, one misstep from crumbling into a dry biscuit for bird feed. Every stolen moment, every clandestine carriage ride felt brittle. Her mind was too jumbled to think coherently.
She growled into the pillow again, frustration roaring through her unfulfilled body. This was no time to indulge in such fevered musings—Viola Lockhart remained heavy on her heart and mind.
Rose rolled out of bed and rang for Jane. Her maid deserved a raise in her quarterly wages for certain.
While awaiting her chocolate, in the quiet household, Rose made straight for the guest chamber to talk to Viola.
With a light tap, she turned the handle and peered inside.
The drapes were parted slightly, allowing a small amount of light.
The bed was unmade, and Rose tiptoed over.
A feeling of dread weaved up her spine as she drew closer.
Empty. She was gone.
The borrowed night rail was neatly folded and placed atop the vanity.
Rose’s stomach plummeted. She hurried back to her bedchamber and slipped on her wrap. “Jane,” she called, her voice tight.
The maid appeared. “I’ve called for your chocolate, my lady.”
“Never mind that. Where is Miss Lockhart?”
Jane blinked in confusion. “Abed—”
“Not abed. She’s gone.”
“But…that’s impossible, my lady.” Jane dashed from the room to the guest suite.
Rose followed and watched as Jane spun in a slow circle. “Perhaps she’s breaking her fast,” her maid said, sounding flabbergasted.
Rose spun on a slippered foot and ran for the stairs and down to the morning room. The empty morning room, where the fragrance of freshly baked bread wafted up from the kitchens. She hurried to the dining room.
Again, empty.
“Madam?”
Rose glanced up, meeting Winston’s furrowed brows as he held a polishing rag of some sort.
“I’m looking for Miss Lockhart. She’s not in her chamber.
” She couldn’t believe how calm she sounded while her insides rioted.
“Have the house searched, Winston. Do not delay.” She turned to Jane.
“Come. Help me dress. I must find the little termagant.” This she uttered under her breath.
Heavens, what did the reckless chit think to do? Think to go!
Once properly attired, Rose went back to the morning room and stared at the small fire that had been laid in the grate, rubbing the hollow ache gnawing at her chest. Frustration. Irritation. Guilt. Of course Viola had run. Rose herself had given the girl no other option.
“My lady?”
Rose turned around, hope filling her until noting Winston’s grim expression.
“Nothing?” she said.
“She departed through the kitchens, according to Cook. It should reassure you to know that she armed herself with a loaf of bread wrapped in a towel.”
Rose sank into a chair, the truth settling over her with merciless clarity. Emerson had told her she would regret it, that she would feel the burden of guilt if she turned the girl out.
He was right. He had been right all along.
“That will be all, Winston,” she said, hardly able to get the words out.
Tears filled her eyes. She pressed a fist to her mouth, her heart swelling painfully.
Oh, how wise she’d thought herself, believed determination and lofty ideals were enough to shield girls from the world’s cruelties.
Foolish. Naive. What did she know of fresh starts and opportunity?
Something she should ask about instead of lecturing on.
She hadn’t asked Viola what she wanted—or any of the girls. Blast it! She—Rose—was a hazard to their well-being, their very future. She’d been playing tea with them when what they truly needed were life skills to survive.
Lord Brockway’s safeguarding lessons.
And what did she know of that sort of survival?
Nothing! Absolutely nothing. She was a duke’s daughter, now a duke’s sister. Outside of the royal family, she was one of the most privileged women in England.
Now Viola was gone, and the fault lay squarely with her.
She went to the escritoire and dashed off a note to Lady Brockway, demanding—requesting—a meeting with his lordship to begin instructions at his earliest convenience. Adding a postscript that Lady Cecelia’s assistance would be most helpful.
Rose dropped the quill, still at a loss. Where was she to turn now?
She wanted—needed—to speak with Emerson. But what could she say to him outside of admitting her failure? A futile notion because he’d warned her. He would take her by the arms then shake her and tell her he’d told her so, in no uncertain terms. Or, worse, he’d just be…disappointed…in her.
He had faced truths she had only begun to glimpse, truths born of hardship and shadows she had never endured. For one wild moment, she longed to go to him now, this very moment, confess how very wrong she had been, admit that she could not bear this weight alone. But for her ridiculous pride.
Perhaps it was time for Adventurous Rose to step aside. The real possibility that she’d signed Viola Lockhart’s death warrant sickened her. She could not put other young girls at risk. If the others learned that Viola had fled, what hope remained to steady them in her own presence?
But something inside Rose shifted, fired by a surge of anger. No longer was she the pathetic wife of a useless baron. Hadn’t she’d tried to help the girl? A reckless, selfish chit who’d treated those meaning to keep her safe with disdain and brazen ingratitude.
Still, something must be done. Somehow Rose had to find her. She paced the drawing room, her thoughts scattering in a million different directions. Emerson was right. She had risked her own life to assist the ungrateful wretch. But where to find her…
~~~
Emerson hadn’t slept a wink. Not for the throbbing ache that still pulled at his side—and his nether regions—though the wound was bound tight and healing, but because his mind refused to shut off.
His thoughts obsessed over Rose’s luscious mouth, the clutch in his chest at her worry over the stitches she’d bravely sewn up without fainting.
Her boldness had drawn him in from the moment he’d met her at Shufflebottom’s masquerade—a place she’d had no business attending.
He let out a long breath and wondered if Rose was suffering the same as he.
And now, the absurdity of the task ahead.
Two, actually, he thought grimly.
Amir held out a subdued waistcoat of soft cream silk.
He eyed it dubiously. “Truly, Amir, white? If I should bleed through my bandages, Lady Kimpton—if she sees me—is likely to collapse.”
“I thought it a wise choice. It might keep you from resorting to your fists.” But he went to the wardrobe and replaced it with one of rusted brown silk and gold thread, then held it out.
“Better.” Mindful of his stitches, Emerson carefully slipped into it and buttoned it over the white linen shirt. He tugged the sleeves into place and allowed Amir to adjust his simply knotted cravat.
He marched down the hall where a footmen leaned casually against the wall. “Has the man stirred?”
“Still as a corpse, sir.”
A jest, Emerson hoped. “Fine, then. Get some rest. Our guest no longer requires looking after.” This he delivered with a diabolical smile.
The footman inclined his head and disappeared into the servant stairwell.
Emerson entered the chamber and wrinkled his nose.
Stockton lay on his back still fully dressed, one hand flattened on his chest and his mouth hanging open.
The man reeked of stale alcohol and cigar smoke.
Emerson moved to the side of the bed and stared down at him.
In sleep, when he wasn’t running his mouth, one could detect the family resemblance to Miss Lockhart, and also ascertain how truly young Stockton was. What a waste.
With a closed fist, Emerson nudged his shoulder. The response was a shuddering snore and a sad attempt at rolling over.
“Stockton,” he bit out sharply, pushing a tad harder on his shoulder.
Stockton’s eyes flickered, then opened. Confusion clouded his vision, then cleared as it seemed to register who stood above him. He bolted to sitting. “What the devil?” he croaked out.
“Welcome to the world of the living, Lord Stockton. It’s time we talked.”
His lips turned down in a petulant pout. “What about?”
“I’ve paid the vowels in which Shufflebottom had you by the throat.”
“You were serious?”
“Of course. It’s my contribution to Society in keeping you off the streets. You and Ben are to meet my man, Haber is his name, at noon. You’ll start from the bottom up.” Emerson offered Stockton the same smile he’d given the footman. “Reporting to me.”
“And if I choose not to?”
“A Bow Street runner will execute the warrant I’ve had drawn up, and you’ll be escorted directly to Fleet.”
“How long? How long must I work for you?”
“Your debt comes to near five-thousand pounds.”