Chapter Forty
Rose paced before the fire, staring at the flickering flames, but she couldn’t seem to get warm despite her wool day dress, her mind a mangled mass of dread and longing.
“Do you really wish to marry him?” Rebecca asked her.
Startled, she glanced up, having no notion how long she stood staring into the fire after Emerson and Sebastian’s departure for Canterbury amidst such high tension. Rose hoped one didn’t kill the other. Neither way boded well for her.
“Yes. Yes, I really do,” she said softly. She moved to the settee Rebecca was sitting on and dropped beside her.
“He does appear generous. Donating those bolts of cloth was most magnanimous. And after that waltz last evening, no one can doubt his regard for you. Did you know he pledged nearly ten thousand pounds at last night’s subscription?
” Rebecca poured tea into Rose’s empty cup and handed it to her before warming her own cup.
Shock rendered Rose speechless, sending another bout of emotional turmoil through her.
Rebecca smiled. “Whitmore’s was by far the most generous of our donations. I believe we raised nearly fifty thousand.” She poured a cup for herself. “Now, what are your plans for today?”
Swallowing past the turmoil, she struggled to pull her jumbled thoughts together, drawing in a deep breath. “I must find Viola.”
“And just where do you propose to look for her? You said she had money. Is it true you found her in Whitefriars?”
“Yes. Viola said Lady Lockhart sold her to a brothel.”
Rebecca’s mouth dropped, then snapped shut. “What a cruel woman she is. Is it not bad enough women must contend with the arrogance of men and their overbearing treatment of us?”
“She’s awful. I believe Viola is being truthful.
But…” She set her cup down without drinking from it.
“It’s just that Viola has lied about other things that have me doubting myself.
What’s worse is that I see my own self-serving ideals through her.
” She straightened her spine, refusing to excuse her own behavior, despite Emerson’s assurances that she could put her behavior down to youthful selfishness.
“I was that same spoiled, uncaring girl.”
“Oh, Rose. That’s simply not true.”
“It is true!” she cried. “Look at how horribly I treated you and Gabriella before Stanford’s death.
I let myself be influenced by the likes of Estelle Bentick.
” Lady Bentick had proven herself utterly deranged.
She not only plunged the knife into Stanford’s chest, but she’d abducted Gabriella.
Shot her. With a pistol! Rose had nearly lost her youngest sister to a monstrous woman.
Those days had been nothing short of dreadful.
Rebecca’s eyes softened. “You mustn’t blame yourself. No one had any way of realizing how unhinged Lady Bentick was. No one.” She rose from the settee. “Come with me to Hope House—” She held up her palm, exposing the scars on her arm.
The move stopped the argument that sat on the tip of Rose’s lips.
“I know we’ve never been the best of friends, Rose, but believe me when I say, you are failing to see your worth.
I see it. Gabby sees it. The girls at Hope House—granted they had their doubts in the beginning—but I’m assured they see your worth too.
Besides, what good does it do anyone to sit around moping? ”
She was right, and with Emerson out of London, Rose hadn’t the slightest notion on how to locate Viola. “Yes. That is a very good idea.” She smiled at her sister-in-law. “Thank you, Rebecca. Just…thank you.”
Rebecca took Rose’s hand with her scarred one and squeezed. “We couldn’t be more thrilled with your contributions to Hope House, darling. Don’t let your fears rule your head.”
“I suppose I sometimes feel as if I’m just playing at charity and that will only hurt those I wish to help—” She pressed her fingertips to her eyes to keep the tears at bay. “What if I am no better than Stanford, tossing people aside when it suits me?”
Rebecca pulled Rose’s hands from her face and shook her lightly. “Just posing that very question shows exactly how much you care. Come, Rose. Secreting yourself from others will only cause such doubts to fester.”
“How did you become so wise?” Rose allowed Rebecca to call for their bonnets, cloaks, and gloves.
The carriage ride to Hope House was short, but every jolt over the cobbles rattled her resolve.
By the time the familiar brick front of Hope House came into view, Rose’s stomach coiled in dread.
What if the girls looked at her differently now?
What if her failure had soured the fragile trust she had finally begun to build?
The door opened before they emerged from Rose’s comfortable barouche, and Mrs. Kier peered out.
“I wondered when you two would finally arrive.” She stepped back, her practical turn of mind a balm over Rose’s battered esteem.
“Go on in the drawin’ room, Yer Grace and milady. I’ll bring tea directly.”
Rose divested herself of her hat, gloves, and cloak, and made her way down the hall to the drawing room. Tea would be most welcome.
She entered a room crowded with the girls, the air buzzing with a strange expectancy. And there, at the center, stood Viola Lockhart.
Rose’s breath caught.
Viola’s bared hands twisted at her waist, her expression one of genuine contriteness.
Beside her, Inez Macy stood clutching the pair of kid gloves Rose had given her.
The very ones Viola had insisted Inez had given to Viola.
Her posture stood at the ready, her chin high, no doubt anticipating the worst. “I should never have taken them. I’m truly sorry. ”
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Inez’s eyes were wide, her lips quivering into the faintest smile. “Thank you, Miss Lockhart. Mayhap…mayhap we could share.”
A ripple of relief moved through the room.
Rose pressed her fingers to her mouth, her throat thick. Rebecca’s hand brushed her arm, steady and warm, as if to say, You see?
“No,” Viola said. “They belong to you. I-I was wrong to assume the worst—” Her eyes moved about the room and stopped when they landed on Rose. She blinked quickly, and Rose realized she was attempting to stem tears.
Perhaps Rose had been playing at charity. But in this moment, as Viola bowed her head, it seemed the other girls were suddenly rallying about her. In that instant, it finally dawned on Rose that charity was not weakness, it was the courage to keep showing up, even after believing one had failed.
Laughter and chatter swelled, the other girls also flocking around Inez, admiring her gloves as if they were treasures newly unearthed.
Rose’s heartbeat pulsed in her ears, and she made a promise to purchase new gloves for all the girls. Seconds later, Viola’s eyes flicked up and caught hers.
The girl hesitated, then crossed the room with slow, measured steps. The proud tilt of her chin remained, but something had shifted—her gaze was less defiant, more searching. “My lady,” she said softly, stopping just short.
Rose’s heart thudded. She had an insane urge to embrace her, to scold her, but all she managed was a cracked voice. “Welcome back, Miss Lockhart.”
A tenseness in Viola’s shoulders released. “I owe you my largest thanks, my lady. You saved my life, and I treated you most abominably.”
Rose blinked. What a watering pot she’d become. She reached for Viola’s hands, cold and thin between her own. “Shall we start again?”
A shuddering breath left Viola. “Oh, yes, Lady Stanford. Yes, please,” she whispered.
Rebecca’s voice carried across the room, brisk and cheerful. “Who will assist me with tea?”
The girls bustled after her, leaving Rose and Viola in a pocket of stillness. Rose squeezed the girl’s hands once more, silently vowing she would not fail her again. Any of them.
Herself, most of all.
~~~
“Despite Tatton’s demands to stay out of Crown business, I must stop at the warehouse before leaving town,” Emerson told the duke.
Ryleigh inclined his head. “I thought as much, Whitmore. But I warn you—”
“There is no need to warn me, Your Grace.” Emerson’s gaze cut to the passing streets, every hackle raised. “It’s a matter of self-preservation. If you must know, I’ve resorted to hiring my brother and Stockton.”
“Stockton,” he said, startled.
If he’d had it in him, Emerson would have smiled, having caught the duke out a second time.
“Shufflebottom held a substantial vowel over him. I negotiated it down and bought the note for an amount the marquis found difficult to turn down. It will do Stockton good to work off his debt. Perhaps learn something of himself in the process.” Emerson shrugged.
“I’ll admit, I found it quite satisfying, setting that fop Shufflebottom on his heels. ” He pulled out his watch. After five.
Ryleigh muttered a curse beneath his breath. “I can’t decide if I admire you or should have you committed.” But when the coach halted before the hulking shape of the warehouse, the duke descended with him.
Emerson refrained from asking him if that was wise, as the man’s bearing could not be disguised. Striding to the doors, Emerson entered to lantern light spilling over the threshold. The typically bustling noises of everyday chatter and shouting were missing, raising the hair on his neck.
The air stank of tar and damp hemp, but underneath that…copper. Blood.
Their boots crunched over scattered grain and echoed on the wood planked floors. A toppled crate spilled sawdust across the ground. Emerson pulled up short.
In the shadows, was a body sprawled. “Faulk.” Emerson hurried to his manager’s side, dropping to his haunches. “Christ,” he hissed.
Faulk lay unconscious, his temple split.
Ryleigh crouched beside him. “One of your men?”
“Faulk Haber.” Emerson set his fingers at his neck, pulse thready but present. “He’s alive.”
“Haber’s the one who signed the papers Tatton presented.”
“Yes.” Emerson came slowly to his feet. “And if he’s here, then—”
Stockton rushed from the back of the warehouse. “Mr. Whitmore? Thank God.”
Emerson pulled up. “What’s going on here?”
“A man by the name of Cutter or something came in swinging,” he said in a rush. “Accused Lady Stanford of stealing one of his tarts.”
So, not Billy. “Where’s Ben?” Emerson demanded.
“He left early. He said you wished him to accompany you and Lady Stanford to Norfolk’s tonight…” His gaze caught sight of the duke, and he swallowed hard. “Your Grace?”
“Go on with your explanation, Stockton,” Ryleigh said. “I understand you are now gainfully employed. I sincerely hope you do not squander the opportunity.”
“Er, yes, Your Grace.” Stockton drew in a deep breath. “Hurry. Follow me.” He took off in a run down the narrow passage from where he’d emerged, between stacked crates to a storage closet at the back. Before he could say more, Emerson heard a groan, and he rushed for the open door.
The stench nearly felled him. “What the devil? Bring a light.”
Stockton held up a lantern.
The man slumped inside was bound hand and foot, a gag shoved cruelly between cracked lips. His face was gaunt and bloodied. His coat, once fine, was caked with grime. The signet ring on his swollen hand glimmered in the lamplight.
“I found him like this. I don’t know how long he’s been here. He’s in bad shape.”
“Oscar,” Emerson breathed.
Behind him came Ryleigh’s swear and sharp gasp from Stockton.
Emerson yanked a dagger from his boot and dropped to his knees, slicing the cords free.
Oscar sagged into his arms, his weight alarmingly slight.
Gag yanked free, Oscar gasped, a broken, rasping sound.
Emerson’s stomach turned as he caught sight of his cousin’s fingers—everyone bent at an unnatural angle, knuckles ballooned black-and-blue.
“Who did this?” Emerson demanded, though his cousin could scarcely breathe, let alone answer.
Oscar’s eyes fluttered open, clouded with pain. His lips moved. Emerson bent close, his ear against cracked teeth.
“The… baroness…is…she…” The whisper was a ghost of a sound.
Emerson froze. His heart slammed once, twice, before the word fully registered. Rose?
“No.” He wanted to shake him, but it would likely kill him. “What about the baroness?”
But Oscar had collapsed into unconsciousness, his breath shallow, his pulse faint.
Ryleigh’s hand clamped Emerson’s shoulder. “We cannot linger. If what he said is true, then my sister is in peril.”
“Yes. And God help anyone who lays a hand on her,” he bit out.