Emily wore the ivory-flounced tulle gown, trimmed with pink roses and Limerick lace. About her shoulders rested an embroidered India shawl with a long silk fringe. Her kid gloves had over thirty buttons to hold them snugly against her skin, and the pearl necklace hung against her neck.
“Lady Thistlewaite, thank you for your hospitality,” Emily said, nodding politely.
“Well, I am surprised to see you again, Miss Barrow. I mean, Lady Whitmore,” she corrected. “Forgive me, but since I haven’t seen you with your husband yet, it is easy to forget you are married to him.”
Don’t let her provoke you, Emily warned herself.
“I am certain that will be remedied, soon enough.” Emily pasted on a bright smile, albeit a false one. “Has my husband arrived yet?”
“I fear he has not.”
Emily’s composure faltered. Just the thought of seeing Stephen again knitted her insides into knots. She tried to prepare herself for his rejection, for his undeniable wrath. But she was tired of feeling unworthy, angry at being looked down upon.
“I am sure he will arrive soon,” she said.And Lord help me if he does attend.
Nigel patted Emily’s arm. “I, for one, am glad of his absence. It allows me to walk around in the company of an exceptionally beautiful lady. Until the earl steals her away, that is.”
Nigel’s compliment eased her, and as he led her inside, he whispered, “Do not forget, Emily. You are a countess.”
His reminder helped to clear her thoughts. The past was gone; she could not change it. But she had power now, power she had denied herself. It was time to take her place as Lady Whitmore.
Behind her fan, she touched the bodice of her gown, to ensure the papers were still there. She was certain that this was the evidence Stephen needed. If only she could understand the meaning behind the numbers.
The answers must be there. Daniel would never have hidden them were they not of critical importance. She felt on the verge of discovery, but with the excitement came a natural fear.
Her uncle arrived just then to rescue her. “My dear, would you care to dance? I believe my knee might be able to stand a turn about the floor, if you are willing.”
“No, thank you.” Emily patted his arm. “But you might find another young lady.”
“None so lovely as you,” Nigel argued. “Come, now. You’ll hurt my feelings.”
Before she could turn him down, he led her on to the floor. “I’ve never quite grown accustomed to this scandalous dance, but I am told waltzing has come into fashion.” He captured her cold hands in his warm gnarled palms, offering a smile. “Don’t worry, child. You are a fine dancer.”
Emily’s eyes burned at his kindness. Never once had her father escorted her to a ball, nor her brother. But Nigel had done this for her.
It was easier to follow his lead after the dancing lessons he’d paid for. Nigel moved slowly, guiding her in the patterns of the waltz. In time, she relaxed, though she was still aware of the eyes upon her. Lady Thistlewaite, in particular, looked as though she had swallowed a lemon.
“The entire room is dying to know what Whitmore will do when he arrives,” Nigel said. “I’ll spread a few rumors about your elopement, to help you out.”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” she admitted. She wanted to meet Stephen on her own terms, and no doubt he would be furious with her for coming here.
“He is quite late, I must say,” Nigel commented. “I wonder why? I do hope nothing has gone amiss.”
Emily stumbled at the thought of Stephen coming to harm. Her uncle caught her, easing her into the next step. As she continued to dance, it was as if she moved in a daze. Fear clenched her gut, and she found it difficult to breathe. With everyone’s eyes upon her, she needed a moment alone.
“Uncle, will you please excuse me?”
Nigel’s gaze turned worried, but Emily reassured him that everything was all right. She left him, moving toward the ladies’ retiring room. Thankfully, no one was there. She sat before a looking glass, staring at her pale face. Nothing had happened to Stephen, she tried to reassure herself. He would be here soon enough.
A sense of foreboding settled across her shoulders, needling her with thoughts ofwhat if. “He will come tonight,” she told herself. “I know he will.”
But as time slipped onward, and the murmurs of society turned to gloating whispers, her fear transformed into dread.
In the cool darkness of night, the figure slipped into the shadow of Nigel Barrow’s house. With a thin knife, he maneuvered the locks, moving upstairs to where the children slept.
He stopped in the older boy’s room first. The firelight cast shadows across the child huddling beneath the covers. Royce slept fitfully, and as the man drew near, the boy’s eyes flew open.
“Shh…” The man raised a finger to his lips. “I have come to take you to your father.”
