Chapter Forty-Two
Forty-Two
Rather than returning Rose home to Upper Brook Street, Emerson had given the direction to Manchester Square. Emerson didn’t seem fit for conversation, and she turned her gaze to the fog-shrouded night out the windows. She was comforted by his hand wrapping hers.
It took only moments to reach Manchester Square. Every window lighted the night sky, even through the heavy air. “Goodness, I wonder if they’ve enough candles,” she murmured as the hackney rolled to a stop.
“What’s going on?” Ben asked, stepping down.
“He hasn’t arrived.” The grimness in Emerson’s tone tugged at Rose. He turned and assisted her down.
“Your cousin?” Rose asked Emerson.
“The duke was seeing him home.”
Yates had the door open before they reached it and she followed Emerson and Ben inside. She found the library quite warming.
Yates, too. He showed none of the disdain that frequently emanated from Winston.
“What happened to him?” Ben asked. His features were so pale, Rose feared he was on the verge of collapsing again. Emerson pushed a glass of brandy in his hand that shook slightly, forcing him to clutch it with both hands.
“I think he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. At least, I pray that is the case,” Emerson said, handing Rose a glass of her own.
The door opened, and Lord Stockton entered.
“My aunt.” His voice shook with violence. “She’s dead.” He moved into the room, stood there as if he’d forgotten how to walk.
“Sit down, Stockton. I’ll pour you a drink,” Emerson said.
Stockton made his way to a chair before the fire and dropped into it, his eyes vacant with shock.
“I believe you are acquainted with Lady Stanford.”
He shot to his feet. “My lady.” He appeared on the verge of tears.
“Please, Lord Stockton,” she said softly. “Sit. My deepest condolences.”
He looked at her, his expression bleak. “Is what Mr. Whitmore said true? That she sold Viola to a…a brothel?”
Rose caught Emerson’s wince but kept her focus on Stockton. “I fear so, sir. If it’s any consolation, she seems to have come through the ordeal unscathed.”
He blew out a pursed breath. “But she’s safe?”
“Yes.”
Oddly, Stockton’s gaze kept flicking to Rose, setting her nerve endings prickling. But he refrained from speaking.
Once more, Yates entered. This time bearing a silver tray. “A missive, sir.”
Emerson took the note and dropped down beside her. He broke the seal, and as he read, his jaw tightened and his cheeks flushed dark.
Rose reached over and touched his hand. “Emerson?”
“It’s another demand,” he bit out.
With all the confusion of the last few hours, Rose had nearly forgotten the blasted blackmail scheme. She retrieved the note and read the missive aloud.
Mr. Whitmore—
Our patience has reached its end. Deliver five thousand pounds behind the iron gate off Bedford Row by midnight if you value your lady’s good name.
She has been seen in places no virtuous lady ought to tread, and certain incidents—damning incidents—may find their way to the broadsheets should you fail to comply. This is your final warning.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Rose snapped the paper. Vellum. “Who—”
Glass shattered from the spirits cabinet. Her head whipped up.
“It slipped,” Stockton said. His hand dripped with blood.
“Oh, God.” Ben’s glass fell to the floor but didn’t break as he slumped back in his chair.
“Stay where you are,” she commanded Stockton.
Emerson came to his feet and pulled on the bell chord, requesting Amir’s presence and a bowl of water.
Rose hurried over to assess the damage to Stockton’s hand. He was so stiff, she thought he would shatter. She glanced up to his face. It was as pale as Ben’s. “Don’t tell me you faint at the sight of blood as well,” she said with a smile and an attempt at humor.
“No, my lady.”
“How is he?” Emerson asked from behind her.
“I believe he shall survive. To my profound relief, no stitches appear required,” she said, still holding Stockton’s hand to stem the blood. “Did you notice anything strange about the note, Emerson?” She glanced over her shoulder to see him frowning.
“Like what?”
“The handwriting. It’s different from the previous note I saw.”
Stockton tried pulling his hand from her. “Sir, I must insist you remain steady or you will damage the carpets.”
“Lord Stockton,” Emerson said slowly, “is there something you wish to tell me?”
Amir entered with the bowl of water. “Who is dying now?”
“You mustn’t tease so,” Rose admonished.
“Lord Stockton has cut his hand. But it doesn’t look too serious.
A good cleaning and dousing of spirits and a bandage should do him well.
” She stepped back, folding her arms beneath her breasts.
“I do admit my curiosity in hearing his answer to Emerson’s question. ”
“Stockton? If you please.” Emerson’s tone brooked no argument. The man was stuck.
There was a slight hiss, however, when Amir poured whiskey over the wound before binding it up.
Rose stepped forward, slipped her arm through Stockton’s, and led him to his chair where Ben was just coming to. “There, there, Lord Stockton. You’ll feel much freer once you’ve unloaded the burden weighing you down.”
“We’ll have the whole of it, Stockton. The truth.” The hardness in Emerson’s voice left no doubt in Rose of the coming result.
Rose never felt so sorry for someone. Stockton looked as if he were about to cry. The color had returned to Ben’s cheeks in a harsh scarlet of fury. “Go on, my lord. You have everyone’s attention.”
“The idea was…mine.” His eyes darted to Rose. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
She reached over and squeezed his hand.
Stockton rubbed a palm over his eyes, blinking fiercely.
“We were all in our cups, you see. Shufflebottom encouraged our unruly behavior—not that there is any excuse,” he said quickly.
“He supplied the liquor, took us to the hells, handled our vowels to the tune of thousands.” He glanced at Ben.
“Except for you. I never understood it.”
“I didn’t wish to be beholden,” Ben said.
“To me,” Emerson finished.
“To you.” Ben shrugged. “To anyone.”
“Of course, we—Collier, Gorman, Lampert, me—were drunk as fools when we came up with the notion. We knew that you, Mr. Whitmore, were loaded with funds. We also knew that Ben was in line for the earldom. Nor did it hurt that the two of you were at odds.” He let out a sigh.
“Besides, no one had seen or set sight on Hallandale’s heir for an age.
We believed Massey’s pockets would be plump enough and quickly. ”
“You threatened Lady Stanford,” Emerson bit out. “Not once, not even twice. But three times.”
Rose winced but remained quiet.
Stockton’s face turned a humiliating shade of red. “I told the others we were done for. The scheme was too fraught with danger. Especially once Ben chose to take up residence with you.”
“Collier. He was the most determined. He owes the most, you see.”
“What of Hallandale?” Ben gritted out. “You went to Sussex.”
Stockton flinched. “We only thought to speak to him when we learned he landed back on English soil.”
“But you acted as if you knew his fate,” Ben protested, outraged.
“We only thought to speak to him for a loan. But he was gone when we arrived,” Stockton said.
“And you didn’t have anything to do with his broken fingers and the state of his ill health?” The rigid, cold unforgiveness in Emerson’s voice frightened Rose. “You didn’t give Billy access to him?”
“No! I found him just before you arrived,” Stockton cried, shuddering. “I was afraid to touch him, of further hurting him.”
Emerson’s glance moved between Ben and Stockton. “You were there all afternoon. Did you see anything?”
“No.” Ben’s face was as white as soured milk. “Broken fingers?” he croaked.
But Emerson ignored Ben’s response with a direct, accusing stare at Stockton.
Rose genuinely worried over Stockton’s fate.
“What of you? You must have seen something,” Emerson demanded.
“Just Mr. Haber leaving for a short time. He asked me to man the office since Ben had already departed.”
Rose stood and strode to the much needed brandy for all concerned, bringing back the entire bottle and an extra glass for Stockton. She poured out measures and handed them about.
There was a commotion coming from the foyer, and Rose moved to the door, shocked to see Sebastian. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m delivering the Earl of Hallandale into your betrothed’s capable care.”
~~~
Emerson strode into the vestibule. In one quick grim look, he assessed the situation and inclined his head. “Your Grace.”
Yates entered the hall. “I’ll have the green suite readied, sir. T’will only take a moment.” He melted away like a ghost.
Emerson hoped he could remember where the green suite was located. “Does your man require assistance bringing my cousin in?”
“No. I’ve enlisted two footmen.” Ryleigh turned to the open door and signaled. Minutes later, two liveried footmen carrying Oscar on a makeshift bed with wooden sticks stepped inside.
“Follow me, gentlemen,” Emerson told them, going past Stockton and Ben, standing in the doorway wearing shocked expressions, then led the way up the main staircase.
“Give him my chamber, Emerson,” Ben said tightly. “To avoid delay.”
Emerson nodded. The duke kept pace with him up the stairs. “What of the doctor?”
“He said if Hallandale makes it through the night, there’s a good chance he’ll survive. His name is Pogue. He’ll be along directly to check on the earl’s comfort.”
“Ben, Stockton, come back to the library,” he heard Rose urging, then the door closing.
“Did Oscar say anything?” Emerson asked.
“I fear he believes himself on his deathbed. There were some ramblings of finding a note requiring an urgent meeting with his London bankers. He insisted it was a forgery. I regret to say he was in and out of consciousness. What of the attacker?”
“Faulk said he enlisted Billy to nab him. I believe Billy and a brothel owner by the name of Cutter pooled their talents,” Emerson gritted out. “Stockton verified he came in swinging. Rose saved Billy’s favorite prostitute right out from under his nose along with Cutter’s newest and untried.”
“Rose?”
“Don’t sound so shocked, Your Grace. It was most impressive.
Billy has paid his cup penance and I’ll admit, it’s most dissatisfying as the man escaped wrath by my own hands.
” Emerson led them down the long opposite hall from his own rooms to Ben’s.
“Through here,” he directed the footmen.
He remained out of the way, allowing them to situate Oscar.
Ryleigh clamped his hand on Emerson’s shoulder. “He’s in a bad way, Whitmore. My most sincere condolences.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Emerson swallowed a choke of emotion. “For everything.”
Ryleigh nodded, and after Oscar was settled, the duke departed with his footmen, leaving Emerson alone and reeling. He went to the bed and looked down at his sleeping cousin.
His eyes flickered, then opened, unfocused. He groaned.
“Oscar, you mustn’t move.”
“Emerson?”
“You’re safe here,” Emerson told him.
“What the devil?”
A small smile tugged at Emerson, and he touched his cousin’s now deformed hand. “We’ve been looking for you. You should rest. I’m to be married, my lord. And I’ll demand your presence.”
“And I shall be there,” he whispered, his eyes falling closed.
Emerson let Yates know the change in Ben’s lodgings, then had a footman posted at the door should Oscar require something, the least little thing. His cousin would not die on his watch.