Royce sat up, his fists gripping the coverlet. “My father is dead.”
“That is what they told you. But he sent me to come and take you to him.” The man held out a hand. “You trust me, don’t you?”
The boy nodded.
“Then let us go before anyone sees us.”
“What about Aunt Emily and Uncle Stephen?”
“Do not worry about them. They will come to you in the morning.”
The boy moved the covers aside, struggling to put on his shoes.
“You must be silent when we leave. Do not speak a word and stay out of sight in the coach.” The man handed him a blanket. “Take this.”
“What about Victoria?” the boy protested. “I can’t leave my sister.”
“She will come with us.” The man held out his coat, and Royce fastened the buttons. With a longing glance toward his bed, at last he relented.
“Do you promise I’ll see my father soon?” he whispered.
The man’s face remained impassive. “I promise you will see him very soon.”
As he closed the door behind the boy, his hand touched the curved knife blade hidden beneath his coat.
Stephen arrived at the Thistlewaite residence just past the hour of midnight. He had spent time at White’s, investigating Freddie Reynolds’s debts. It seemed that Reynolds and Emily’s brother had done more than their share of gambling. Reynolds needed money—by any means possible.
When Stephen saw his wife’s face amid the ballroom crowd, a slow fury built within him. The throng parted in half, and he moved straight toward her.
Emily wore pearls around a lovely neck he wanted to wring. The ivory tulle clung to the curves he had run his hands over just the other night. A sensuous strand of hair had fallen from the elaborate arrangement, and her lips held the slightest tint of red. Her beauty took his breath away.
Why could she not understand his need to keep her safe? Even now, the man who most likely had tried to murder him was standing only a short distance away. He glared at Freddie Reynolds, but the dandy pretended not to see.
When he reached Emily’s side, he noticed that her uncle was no longer with her. The idea of her being left alone appalled him.
“You’re here,” she said, her shoulders relaxing with relief. “I was so worried about you.”
“Of course I am here,” he murmured. “But you were supposed to remain at home for your own safety, my dear wife.”
“When have I begun taking orders I do not agree with?” she returned, smiling sweetly.
Stubborn woman. He overpowered her, pulling her toward a private alcove. “Come with me. We need to talk alone.”
“Where you can hide me away and pretend like we’re not married?” She sent him a pointed look.
Before he could say another word, Freddie Reynolds appeared. “Lady Whitmore, is everything all right?”
“Yes, of course.” Emily managed to smile, though Stephen noted her underlying anger.
Stephen had no intention of allowing the obsequious rodent near his wife. “Stay away from Lady Whitmore.”
Freddie did not back down but stared back with determination. He was not as tall and had to tilt his head back a little. “I believe Lady Whitmore is my partner for the next dance.”
Before Stephen could argue, a flock of matrons descended, surrounding him and pushing Emily back. His wife clasped the edges of her shawl, looking lost…and disappointed. She straightened her spine and stood outside the circle, quietly waiting. God, she was beautiful. The ivory gown complemented her fair skin, contrasting against the dark golden hair. He’d never seen her like this before, cool and confident. Like a countess. And she belonged to him.
The matrons continued speaking on top of one another. “My dear Lord Whitmore, what a pleasure—”
“I’ve heard the most amazing tale about you and Miss Barrow—”
