Someonewasfollowinghim.Though it seemed an unreasonable suspicion with all the hired hacks and other carriages out on the road, Stephen couldn’t shake the heavy premonition.
The evening air held the coolness of spring, and a low fog obscured the road. Flickering gas lights shone through the mist, while another carriage drew closer.
He ordered his driver to take them past Grosvenor Square toward Hyde Park. The man was one of the newer servants sent over from Rothburne House, but he was a friendly enough sort. They rode in silence for half a mile, perhaps more. No one appeared to be traversing the same path. In time, he was forced to admit he’d been wrong. When they reached an area toward the lake, the carriage slowed to a stop.
“Take me to Rothburne House,” he told the driver.
Instead of following his command, the driver turned. A revolver glinted, and out of raw instinct, Stephen threw himself sideways. The shot exploded inches from where he’d been sitting.
Damn.Survival instincts took over, and he seized his assailant’s arm. Muscles burned and perspiration slid down his forehead as he held the revolver away. The man’s finger eased across the trigger, ready to fire.
Stephen slammed his head against the man’s nose, twisting his body to gain control of the weapon. Caught off balance, the driver lurched forward, and Stephen fired the gun. Blood spread across the driver’s shirt, and he slumped against the door.
With the dead man lying at the bottom of his carriage, Stephen stilled. Though outwardly he showed no sign of exertion, his pulse pounded with energy. He had hoped to draw his enemy out, and now it had happened.
He felt no remorse for the assailant’s death. Nor did he believe this was the same man who had tried to murder him back in February; likely the man was only a hired killer.
He had been careless, too trusting, and it had nearly cost him his life. Stephen withdrew his handkerchief, wiping the blood from his hands.
He had achieved his goal, it seemed. His attacker now knew he was back in London. And he wanted Stephen dead.
Emily searched the glittering ballroom for a sign of her husband. She wore the lavender gown Stephen had given her. Although it was old-fashioned, Emily liked its simplicity. Her maid Beatrice had laced up her corset until Emily could barely breathe, but the results made her waist tiny. Her petticoats and crinoline swelled the skirts around her like the gown of a princess. The effect was lovely, except for the shoes. She had nothing else to wear, save the dancing slippers Stephen had purchased for her. The terrible shoes pinched her toes like a vice, yet she had no choice but to suffer.
Beatrice had taken charge of her hair, placing white roses behind the knot. She had loosened stray tendrils to float around Emily’s nape.
For a moment, Emily hesitated at the door, afraid of disgracing herself by either fainting or heaving up the contents of her stomach. She had arrived separately from Stephen since she hadn’t told him of her intention to attend. Her maid Beatrice stood behind her as a chaperone.
Already she was breaking so many rules of good manners. She should not have come without her husband at her side. But then, did anyone know she was married? She wasn’t certain whether Whitmore had revealed it to anyone. Heaven knew, the marquess would not speak a word of it.
Nervously, she twisted her gloved hands, terrified of what they would say. She recognized Phillips, the footman who had tossed her into the streets some weeks ago. Across the ballroom, she saw Lady Rothburne signal to the footman, shaking her head slightly. The acerbic feeling in Emily’s stomach worsened as Stephen’s mother did not come forward to welcome her.
The footman stared at her as though she were an unwanted insect. “I do not believe you were invited, madam.”
Emily struggled to maintain her composure. A deep flush suffused her cheeks, and she forced herself to hold her head high.Do not let them see your feelings. “I am the Countess of Whitmore,” she murmured. “I rather think my husband would be offended if you deny me entrance, don’t you?”
Where was Stephen? She looked around, but did not see him anywhere. Without him as an escort, she felt the curious eyes of the crowd watching her. A wall. She needed a wall where she could blend into the background and await her husband.
Then, a voice rescued her, calling out, “Miss Barrow! By Jove, it issucha delight to see you again.”
Freddie Reynolds beamed as though she’d handed him the sun on a silver platter. He wore a crimson frockcoat with a matching waistcoat and black trousers. His brown hair was combed back, his beard and mustache neatly trimmed. In spite of herself, Emily couldn’t help but answer his smile.
“Oh, forgive me, I mean Lady Whitmore. I was hoping to see your face again, and now that I have, my life holds meaning again.”
His exaggeration made her smile. In all honesty, she replied, “Mr. Reynolds, it is a pleasure to see you as well.”
“But where is your husband? Surely you did not come alone?”
Before she could fabricate an explanation, he waved his hand. “You must allow me to be your escort, if I may be so bold. It would be an honor, Lady Whitmore. Quite an honor.”
“Well, actually, I—”
“Did you like the flowers I sent to you?” he interrupted.
Before she could answer, he held up a hand. “No. If they were not to your taste, I would rather not know.”
“They were lovely, but really, you shouldn’t—”
“Perfect! I shall see to it that you receive more this week. I intend to woo your heart yet, my lady.”
