“No. Nor do I care about the reasons why you shirked your responsibilities.”
“A man tried to murder me,” Stephen stated. “And unless you help me to understand what happened that night, it could happen again.”
Alfred didn’t believe it. Likely his son had run into thieves, if anything. “Exaggeration does not become you.”
At that, Stephen pulled up his shirtwaist and revealed a deep red scar. “Does this look like an exaggeration?”
The jagged wound struck him silent. Stephen continued talking about theories of what had happened and talk of danger, but Alfred heard none of the words. He saw only the physical evidence that someone had tried to take another son away from him.
The emptiness of loss shadowed him as he thought of William, his firstborn. A father was not meant to outlive his son.
Although Stephen had done a tolerable job as the new heir, Alfred had never been close to his rebellious second son. A part of him wished that it had been William who had disappeared, only to resurface months later.
With effort, he forced his thoughts back to the present.
Stephen added, “I intend to lure him out into the open so I may deal with him. I want your help. And—” he narrowed his gaze “—I expect you not to meddle with my marriage. I would rather concentrate on finding my enemy than worrying about what you’ve done to Emily.”
Steeling himself, Alfred set down his pen. “What do you wish to know?”
“Tell me of my dealings with her brother. I remember Hollingford in a vague manner, but aside from his gambling habits I don’t recall much.”
Hollingford had been a desperate man who’d spent most of his hours at the gaming tables instead of earning a proper living. “The man had no money,” Alfred answered. “Disgraceful, really, the way he gambled every penny.”
“Did he owe any debts to me?” Stephen asked.
“If you loaned him money, it was charity. Hollingford never repaid any debts.”
“I’ll have to bring him out into the open, then,” Stephen murmured.
“Who?” Obviously, he was not speaking of Hollingford since the man was dead and buried.
“The man who’s trying to kill me.”
Alfred let out the breath he’d been holding. Words of protest died upon his lips, smothered by denial. “What do you intend to do?”
“I want to host a ball and invite all of our acquaintances,” Stephen said. Grimly, he added, “If someone is trying to murder me, I want him to know I am back in London.”
Alfred did not care for this tactic at all, though he recognized the logic. “What if he tries again?”
“Then I will be ready.”
In the past three nights, her husband had seemed more distracted than usual, as though he had lost interest in the courtship. It was starting to bother Emily, and she wished she could somehow make things better between them. But she was afraid Whitmore would turn her away.
She sometimes woke up in the middle of the night, reaching toward the other side of the bed. The sheets remained empty and cold. The connecting door between their rooms might as well have been made of stone.
This afternoon, her fingers itched to do something, so Emily retreated to the kitchen. The familiar warmth of the space and the aroma of freshly baked bread relaxed her.
She shooed the servants out and gathered ingredients for a pound cake, creaming butter into sugar and cracking each egg into the bowl. With each broken eggshell, her uneasiness grew.
Though her husband behaved as though nothing was wrong, that they were friends, it was starting to wear upon her nerves. They shared meals and conversation together, speaking about dull topics such as the weather. And what she really wanted to know was when he would kiss her again.
Ifhe would kiss her again.
Her arms ached from beating the eggs, but she continued. She’d blamed him for her brother’s death, but that wasn’t fair. He couldn’t be with Daniel at every moment. And though she might never know what had happened that night, she needed to let go of the anger or else their marriage would not have a chance.
The door to the kitchen opened, and the earl entered. His dark hair was combed back, his cheeks shaved. He rested his palm against a wall, watching her. “I thought I might find you here.”
Her knuckles curled over the wooden spoon as she met his gaze. “What is it?”
