“I’ve received notes of a threatening nature in the past few weeks. He wants a thousand pounds, or he’ll harm my family.” Carstairs slammed down the glass, anger glinting on his face. “I couldn’t pay if I wanted to. I was relying upon the profits from that shipment.”
The revelation of financial problems made Stephen even more cautious. “Why would he target you for blackmail?”
“I don’t know.”
But Stephen didn’t believe him. He said nothing else, waiting for Carstairs to reveal more. The viscount tossed back the remainder of the brandy.
“One last matter, Whitmore. You should straighten your collar. Someone might see.”
“See what?”
With a twisted smile, Carstairs unbuttoned his cuff and raised his sleeve.
There, upon his forearm, was a black tattoo exactly the shape of his own.
Chapter Eleven
Stephenhandedhiscloakto one of the servants and walked upstairs. In his hands, he held the dancing slippers Emily had hidden behind a potted plant.
Ever one to break the rules, that was his wife.
But he’d frightened her tonight, somehow. When he’d shown her his desire, she’d fled, as though he’d asked her to lie with him in the flower garden.
When he reached the landing, he wondered where she had chosen to sleep. Tonight, something had changed between them. For the first time, she’d kissed him. It was the last thing he’d expected, especially after such a grueling night.
He didn’t like the way she’d been treated. More than one heartless matron had trod upon her tender feelings. He blamed himself for not interfering. And yet, he couldn’t remain at her side the way he wanted to. If he even hinted that he cared about Emily, he endangered her.
For all he knew, the man behind the attacks might have been present at the ball. It might even be Carstairs himself. The viscount had most definitely played a part in the shipment. But was he a threat? The tattoo suggested he was not.
He heard the low cry of a child from one of the rooms and decided to quiet the guilty party.
Opening the door, he saw a downy head lift from the two wingback chairs pushed together. It was the infant girl. Stephen couldn’t remember if Emily had ever mentioned her name. He realized he should have purchased a cradle for the baby, long before now.
The baby grinned, revealing a set of two teeth on her bottom gums. “Da-da-da.”
“Not a chance,” he warned. “We’ll have none of that foolishness. Now cease this noise before someone hears you.”
Her face crumpled, and she screwed up her face to cry.
Stephen closed the distance and lifted her up before she could shriek. He had no doubt that the young imp would not hesitate to wake the household with screaming.
The baby buried her face in his neck, snuggling close. Her soft hair smelled of floral soap. A curious protective instinct curled around him, and he held her at a distance to study her.
She chortled, stuffing a fist in her mouth.
“I don’t suppose you’d know where your Aunt Emily is sleeping?”
“Gah,” the baby replied.
“You are a veritable wellspring of information.” He set her down in the wingback chairs, and she whimpered, holding her arms out to him.
“Go to sleep.”
She looked ready to cry, and so he arranged her sideways in order to rub her back. She gave a soft sigh. After several minutes, she succumbed to sleep.
Stephen tiptoed out, wondering whether “Gah” meant left or right.
The door to one of the rooms flew open, and Emily raced toward Stephen, her face deathly pale. “He’s gone.”
