The marquess looked as though he were about to explode. “You cannot think to possibly—“
Quentin put his hands up. “Now, now. Do not be foolish, Lady Whitmore. You will stay here and wait for us to return.”
She shook her head. “You are the foolish ones. You forget that I lived with Uncle Nigel for several weeks. I know his house better than you, and I can get inside without anyone knowing.”
“Stephen would have my head roasted on a platter if I allowed you to come,” Quentin argued.
“But he won’t know, will he?” To cap it off, Emily continued, “And if you leave me behind, I shall simply follow you. It is quite dangerous for a woman of my station to travel alone, even with a suitable companion.”
The marquess’s face transformed from crimson into purple. Emily moved forward and slipped her arm in his. With a firm pat upon his shoulder, she said, “Shall we?”
Quentin offered her his other arm, coughing hastily to hide what might have been a laugh.
It took over two days to reach Nigel’s estate. Stephen stopped only when nightfall made it impossible to go farther. As soon as enough light permeated the horizon, he continued on his journey. He’d switched horses twice, his mind focused on the task at hand. He wore a revolver at his side, a knife hidden inside his coat. Landscapes shifted into rolling meadows, sunsets merging until one day met the next.
Why had he not foreseen the danger? He blamed himself for what had happened. Emily’s devastation haunted him, her fingers curled around Victoria’s blanket.
He remembered, too, the laughing smile of the baby who had drooled all over his waistcoat. Even when Victoria had sobbed herself to sleep in his arms, he couldn’t forget what it had felt like to be a father.
And then there was Royce. The boy reminded him so much of himself—mischievous, eager to please, and yet shielding himself from hurt. Stephen had to succeed in bringing them home. Emily was relying on him.
The thought encouraged him to increase the horse’s gait. He envisaged Emily with her hands buried in bread dough, a smile meant for him. He wanted to make love to her until she cried out, arching her back and drawing him close. He wanted to wake up beside her.
He loved her. The knowledge filled him with an iron-clad resolution not to let her or their family down.
He drew his horse to a stop, the animal’s sides heaving. In the distance he saw Nigel’s country estate. Night descended over the landscape as he drew nearer, darkening the shadows until the glow of gaslights was all that illuminated the manor.
He could not go in alone; Nigel would kill him. He needed stealth, and at the moment, time was on his side. Nigel would not expect him for many days yet. No one else knew of his arrival.
If he moved too swiftly, he risked their lives. Stephen watched the house, turning over possible strategies in his mind. Without leverage against Nigel, the only means of rescuing the children was to overpower him.
He needed a diversion so he could move in for his own attack. It was critical to destroy Nigel’s command of the situation.
He knew just what to do.
Why was it that men always insisted on leaving a woman behind? After surviving a horrid journey by train, riddled with soot and traveling at speeds no human should have to endure, the marquess had ordered Emily to remain in the village.
Her patience had lasted little more than an hour. She needed to be there, to know what was happening. Already she had thought of a plan. She could stay hidden from the others and yet be inside the manor house.
After inquiring in the village over the course of the afternoon, she’d purchased clothing that would help her look like a servant. It hadn’t been difficult to disguise her appearance, for she looked positively dreadful since Lady Thistlewaite’s ball, days ago. Emily covered her hair in a mob cap, drawing it down low over her eyes. In her gray gown, no one would ever mistake her for a lady.
It took her most of the afternoon to walk to Nigel’s estate. As she’d expected, men guarded the entrance.
One blocked her path, a stout man armed with a pair of pistols. “And just where do you think you’re going?”
She kept her face down. “Beggin’ pardon, sir. Mrs. Graham asked me to come. I’m to be the new scullery maid.”
The men exchanged glances. The other guard shrugged and stepped forward. “I’ll take her and see if she’s telling the truth.”
Emily bobbed a curtsy, “Thank you, sir.” Her heart pounded with each step they took toward the house. Would the cook help her? She sent up a thousand pleas to heaven that Mrs. Graham would not betray her.
The man led her to the servants’ entrance in the back. Inside the kitchen, maids scurried about, peeling potatoes and stirring dishes. Mrs. Graham directed the bustle of activity with the grace of a conductor.
“You, there, slice the bread. And, Mary, be sure to inspect the strawberries. There mustn’t be a speck of white.”
The guard cleared his throat. “This chit claims you’ve hired her as the new scullery maid.”
Emily straightened and stared hard at Mrs. Graham. The other servants froze, eyeing one another. Emily gave a faint nod of encouragement, willing the cook to follow her lead.
