“What of the evidence? Have the ledgers been destroyed?”
“There was nothing to be found.”
“Imbecile. Whitmore always keeps records. Did you believe he would leave them for anyone to find?”
“He did not have time to hide anything.”
“I will not take that chance. Search everywhere until you find them. I’ll not risk having my reputation destroyed because of him.”
“As you wish.” The assassin relaxed, since it did not appear there would be repercussions for his initial failure. “He is alone and unprotected now. It will be an easy matter to kill him.”
“Good. I want him dead. Fail me again and you will suffer for it.”
Emily had endured enough pins to feel like a hedgehog’s cousin. In the past few days, Nigel had sent a dressmaker to fit her for morning gowns, evening dresses, riding habits and enough clothes to outfit her according to her rank of countess.
She had loved every moment of it. But her favorite gown was one sent by her husband. Made of ivory tulle, trimmed with cream Limerick lace and pink roses, it was the dress a princess might have worn. Stephen had included matching gloves, fans and leather slippers that fit her perfectly.
She recalled the first pair of dancing slippers he’d purchased. Though they were truly horrid instruments of torture, she remembered dancing barefoot with him on the night of the first ball and the way he’d kissed her. She shivered, touching her fingertips to her mouth.
Being without Stephen bothered her more than she’d thought it would. She’d had nightmares about him dying, reliving the moments of when he’d been missing. She couldn’t bear it if something happened to him.
She remembered his touch, the handsome cast of his face, the way his eyes would devour her.
She missedhim.
Oh, she was weak. She had even ordered him several new pairs of leather boots and shoes to atone for her earlier tantrum. As if that would make it all right again.
During the day, she distracted herself with cooking. Nigel’s staff members were polite and allowed her full rein in the kitchen. And they enjoyed the fruits of her labors, since she shared the desserts with any servant who wandered into the kitchen. The cook, Mrs. Graham, even taught her a few techniques for making delicious sauces.
Nigel had hired dancing masters and tutors, true to his word. Emily absorbed every bit of information, determined not to be defeated by her earlier failures. She spent hours learning how to be a countess, determined to win the battle against the ghosts of her past.
Living with her uncle was like living with Father Christmas. He had bought not one pony, but two—a black one for Royce and a white one for Victoria.
Emily had protested that Victoria would not need it since she had only just begun taking her first steps. With her arms outstretched for balance and her chubby legs bowed, Victoria seemed determined to master walking within a few weeks. But Nigel did not want Royce to receive gifts that Victoria did not also have.
Though she felt uncomfortable about his generosity, her great-uncle ignored her protests and bought whatever he wished. His wealth appeared endless, and despite what he’d said, she couldn’t quite let go of her resentment about her family’s years of struggling.
Maybe Daniel and her fatherhadspent all the money. Maybe it had been lost at the gaming tables. But the fact remained: regardless of what Nigel had sent, she’d not seen a penny of his support.
That night, she buried her face in the coverlet, warming her feet with the hot brick placed by the maid. She was restless, and she reached out toward the empty side of the bed.
Her heart thudded when the door to her room creaked open. Emily swallowed hard. “Anna?” she whispered.
There was no reply. She shrank beneath the coverlet, her hand closing upon the flannel-wrapped brick. Blood pounded in her veins at the idea of an intruder entering her bedchamber. By God, she wasn’t going to cower beneath the covers while someone tried to slit her throat.
As soon as the person drew near enough, Emily sprang into motion, cracking the brick across the intruder’s head. At the contact, a man yelped.
Cursing with pain, he slid to the floor. “I should have known you’d do something like that.”
The familiar voice of her husband transformed her fear into dismay. “Stephen?” Horrified, she lit the lamp.
He clutched his head, blood seeping from his temple. “I suppose this is a quicker way to die than from poison.”
“What are you doing in my bedchamber?” She found a handkerchief and pressed it to his head.
“Visiting you. I see you haven’t forgiven me for going off to London.” He groaned when she increased the pressure to stop the bleeding. “Nigel seems to be taking good care of you.”
“He is,” she admitted. “But I don’t like staying behind while you’re alone in London. You could be hurt or killed.”
