Mrs. Graham’s eyes widened, but she did not argue. “Why, yes. It’s about time you arrived. You were supposed to be here this morning, girl.”
“Beg pardon, mum,” Emily murmured, bobbing another curtsy.
Mrs. Graham took her by the shoulders and nodded to the guard. “Thank you for bringing her. There’s a meat pie on the table there, if you’re hungry.” The guard’s face relaxed, and he accepted the bribe before leaving.
Afterwards, Mrs. Graham handed her a clean apron. Silence filled the kitchen as everyone stared. Emily donned the apron, tying it slowly. “Please do not tell my uncle I am here.”
At their curious looks, she added, “I cannot tell you everything now, but I give you my promise that you will be rewarded for your help.”
Emily cleared her throat. “My nephew and niece—Royce and Victoria—are they upstairs with Anna?”
“They are here, my lady,” Mrs. Graham answered, “but the nursemaid is not. Mr. Barrow hired another woman in the village to care for Victoria.”
“And my husband?”
Mrs. Graham shook her head. “I have not seen Lord Whitmore.”
The words dropped like a blade, slicing through her. Emily gripped the folds of her apron, masking her emotions. “I am sure he will be along shortly,” she managed. “In the meantime, I should like to remain among you. I—I can cook or clean or whatever you require of me.”
Mrs. Graham must have sensed her agitation, for she took Emily’s hand. “I’ll not say a word to the master, if that’s what you want,” she offered. “And neither will anyone else.” She sent a firm glare to the other servants. “No one knows of your presence, save us.”
“Thank you.” Emily picked up a knife and a carrot. Her fingers shook as she struggled to peel it.
Stephen had sworn he would come for the children. He’d given his promise to save them. That night Emily had believed he would walk through the fires of hell. He cared for the children, perhaps loved them as she did.
But he wasn’t here.
A numbing haze strangled her heart, until she had to set the knife down. Was Stephen already dead? The thought transfixed her imagination with horror. The vast feeling of emptiness consumed her, swallowing her up. To never see his face again or hear him tease her…It made her want to weep useless tears. She loved him, and the stupid man was not supposed to die.
Angrily, she pushed the tears aside, taking vengeance upon the helpless carrot with the knife. Weeping would not bring him back, nor would it help the children. At any moment, the marquess and Quentin were planning an attack. She needed to be ready, should they require her assistance. Nigel would not get away with this.
She butchered another carrot, turning her attention to the stew next. A pity she had no arsenic, for at the moment, poisoning her uncle seemed like a fine solution.
Two days later, Stephen approached the manor, at last confident in his plans. It had taken more time than he’d intended to recruit the assistance he needed. His men stood ready, armed and hidden from view. Now nothing would stop him from seizing victory.
He walked toward the house, his hands raised in feigned surrender. Inside his coat he’d hidden a pepperbox pistol, fully loaded with six bullets. Two of Nigel’s men guarded the gates.
“I have business with Nigel Barrow,” Stephen said. “Tell him Lord Whitmore has arrived.” Though he expected the men to draw their weapons, to his surprise, they lowered them. “He is waiting for you,” one said. “I’ll escort you there.”
Stephen followed the man, not letting his gaze betray the presence of his companions. They knew to shadow him and would be ready at his signal.
A slight motion caught his attention. Stephen saw the glint of the other guard’s revolver, and he spun, firing his weapon. The guard dropped forward, and a second shot rang out from beside Stephen. A scarlet stain spread across the guard’s heart, his eyes wide with surprise.
“They planned to murder you before you reached the house,” his friend Michael Thorpe remarked, emerging from the trees. “Do you want us to accompany you?”
As a former schoolmate, Stephen trusted Michael to guard his back. Years of military service made it an easy matter for his friend to disappear from view.
Stephen nodded. “Stay out of sight. Likely, they heard the shots, and with any luck, they may believe I am dead.”
He moved toward the tall boxwood hedge surrounding the outer garden, working his way closer to the servants’ entrance. The heavy scent of roses intensified as he reached the house gardens. Thankfully, the hedges provided numerous hiding places.
He counted silently to thirty, waiting for the others to take their places. Outside, he saw a maid beating a large carpet, the dust billowing in the breeze. She stood between him and the entrance. He held his position, waiting patiently for her to return to the house.
She raised the paddle and gave a sound blow to the carpet, attacking it as though it were an enemy. After nearly five minutes of pounding the dust, she set her paddle down and glanced toward Stephen’s hiding place.
Dear God in heaven. It was Emily, disguised as a maid.
Heedless of who might be watching, Stephen crept up behind her. Dragging her behind the hedge, he muffled her terrified shriek. “What the hell do you think you are doing?”
