She confided the attempts on Stephen’s life. “I haven’t told you much about it, because I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Does he suspect anyone?”
She nodded. “I’m certain that it’s only a matter of time before he remembers everything. And I’m afraid of something happening to him.”
Nigel met her gaze. “Yes, I suppose it is only a matter of time before it all comes back to him.” Then abruptly, his seriousness left, and he offered a broad smile. “But honestly, the only thing Whitmore should be afraid of is of some handsome dandy trying to steal you out from under his nose.”
She braved a smile. “I wish that were the only thing.”
“Come now. Do you really think that anything would happen while you’re out dancing? You’re safer at a ball surrounded by people than anywhere else. And I am not about to let you continue your reputation as a wallflower.” He touched her chin. “Go on, then. Have your maid prepare you, and meet me downstairs. Our carriage is waiting.”
She could see that Nigel wouldn’t take no for an answer. He shooed her upstairs, promising he wouldn’t leave until she returned.
Stephen wasn’t going to like this. But Nigel was right—what could possibly happen in the middle of a ballroom, amid dozens of people?
Emily inhaled sharply, gripping the bedpost as Beatrice cinched her corset. Layers of crinoline and petticoats came next, and last, the ivory ball gown Stephen had given her. Her husband had spared no expense, down to the soft leather dancing slippers that fit perfectly. The bittersweet memory of Stephen’s first gift of shoes invaded, reminding her of the time they had danced in the garden.
“My lady, these arrived for you.” Beatrice held out a long velvet box.
Emily opened the box to reveal a glittering strand of diamonds. To her surprise, she saw they were from Nigel.
Although they were only meant as a gift, they were far too extravagant. Just the thought of wearing them made her feel cold inside. Like a woman on display instead of herself. Instead, she donned the strand of pearls Stephen had given her.
Emily finished preparing for the ball and went to check on the children. Inside his bedchamber, Royce’s arms sprawled over the edge of the bed, his other arm wrapped around a pillow. In the adjoining chamber, Victoria rested in her crib. Her hands were drawn up beneath her chin while her backside pointed skywards. Emily could not resist smiling as she kissed the infant’s downy head.
Inside the nursery, Royce had left toys strewn around the room. Unable to help herself, Emily started to tidy up the mess. Though her crinoline and corset confined her movement, she picked up a jack-in-the-box and set it upon a shelf.
A row of books was about to topple, and Emily straightened the stack. Her gaze narrowed upon one of the volumes. It was one of the last gifts Daniel had given his son, a book of fairytales. The book had belonged to her grandfather many years ago. Emily traced the broken leather binding and then picked it up for old times’ sake.
Flipping through the collection of stories, she recognized the Brothers Grimm, Hans Christian Anderson, and other beloved authors. Then her fingers came upon a familiar, well-loved page. It was the story of “The Steadfast Tin Soldier,” Royce’s favorite. Emily smiled as she skimmed the first pages about the tin soldier’s adventures in a rain gutter. Before she reached the end of the tale, the story changed abruptly. In place of the original tale, neatly glued into the binding, were pages of notes.
Her heart skidded to a stop. These were the hidden records, the ones Stephen had been looking for. Emily studied them, wondering what was so important about the meticulous columns of figures. As she reached the bottom of the page, she recognized names of at least a dozen ships, along with profits and losses. At the very end of the last page were the names of investors involved withThe Lady Valiant.
One name startled her, but she dismissed any suspicion of ill doing. She tore out the pages from the book, tucking them into her bodice. Tonight, she would show them to Stephen, and perhaps he could shed light upon their meaning.
There was little point in trying to question a hysterical Lady Carstairs. While she wept and clung to her daughter, Stephen had searched through the mess of papers, looking for something that would lead him to the true assassin. This time, a dagger in the back had caused Carstairs’s death.
Stephen knew he ought to feel something about the murder, but a numbing chill had frozen his mind to reality. He found it easier to dwell upon theories and lists than the fact that he had escaped death yet again. He shouldn’t be alive now.
What did his enemies want? It had to be information, knowledge they believed he and Carstairs possessed. They had ransacked Hollingford’s house and now Carstairs’s study. They had not searched his father’s residence, however. A mixed sense of relief flooded him when he realized his constant change in residence had likely protected the inhabitants.
Stephen sifted through another stack of papers, and he discovered a record of men who owed Carstairs money. Though it was simply a list, he had not come across Freddie Reynolds’s name before. Annoyance pervaded him when he thought of the man who had tried to court his wife with flowers and awful poetry. Even when they were growing up, he’d never trusted the fop.
Then annoyance shifted into suspicion. The threads interwove into a pattern that seemed a little too convenient. Reynolds had continued to court her affections, even after Emily had told him of their marriage.
Did Reynolds have anything to do with the murders? Though his cowardly nature suggested an aversion to violence, Stephen could not afford to miss a potential clue. It made him wonder how many others he’d missed.
With a glance at his timepiece, he saw that it was growing far later than he’d imagined. The authorities had arrived, and after answering a few questions, Stephen excused himself to attend Lady Thistlewaite’s ball.
Freddie Reynolds might be there. And if he was, Stephen intended to find out what he knew.
Chapter Twenty-One
LadyThistlewaitedidnotconceal her distaste when Emily arrived upon Uncle Nigel’s arm. The matron wore an emerald gown with twelve flounces while her abundant bosom thrust the front of the gown forward. Her lips pursed into a thin line as though she wanted to prevent Emily from entering the ballroom.
“Lady Thistlewaite, I was delighted to receive your invitation.” Nigel kissed her wrist and offered her a charming smile. “You remember my niece Emily, of course.”
“Of course.” Lady Thistlewaite’s gaze flicked across Emily’s gown.
