“I know exactly who I’m dealing with.” Emerson spoke low and precise. “A libertine and a cheat.”
“He owes me money, and he’ll damn well pay. One way or another.”
“You’ve had your fun. Send the vowels to me. It’s time you dealt with someone who knows your ilk.” Emerson turned on his heel with Stockton in tow and nodded to Ben. Huzzahs followed them from the room to the vestibule, where the chattering escalated to almost numbing until his ears still hummed after stepping outside.
He tossed Stockton in the carriage, simultaneously ignoring Ben’s raised brow before following him inside, and berating himself for taking on what was sure to be an ungrateful charity case.
Thirty-Seven
Since Emerson and his brother’s departure, Stanford House seemed much too quiet. Not the peaceful sort of quiet, but a hollow one that settled into Rose’s marrow, and magnified every creak of timber, every gust that rattled the shutters.
She poured herself another measure of brandy—two fingers…more than was wise—and carried it before the fire. She stood close enough for the heat to nip at her bronze skirts, yet the cold night pressed in just the same, seeping into her bones as though no blaze could warm her.
What in heaven’s name was she to do with Viola?
Emerson’s words lingered, maddeningly calm.Try not to toss her back into the streets. I fear your conscience would overcome you quickly, and we would find ourselves right back to where we started.
Blast him. Was he right? Rose pressed the rim of the glass to her lips but found her throat rebelling. She drank, swallowed hard, forcing the liquor down as though it were medicine.
Viola Lockhart’s airs and graces were more than any mortal woman should have to bear. The girl sowed discord with every toss of her hair. Kadida had bristled under her sly remarks. Obviously, the other young women had bitten their tongues until they near bled, putting the fragile balance of Hope House—so hard-won, so precarious—wobbling like china perched on the edge of a table that rocked on uneven legs. And Inez…
The practical choice, the wise choice was to remove Viola before she did more harm.
And yet…
Rose dropped heavily into the nearest chair, the brandy sloshing over her hand. The image of Lady Lockhart—cold,patrician, pitiless—painted a vivid image in her mind. Any relative who would as soon as consign her family member to a brothel than bear the inconvenience of her sent nausea roiling through Rose. The thought of Viola, or any young woman alone and defenseless, having the fine armor of breeding stripped from her in a single brutal night was a powerful deterrent. Viola was a fighter. She’d escaped that fate, though barely.
God above.
So no, in good conscience, Rose could not cast the girl to the rookeries. But she could—and must—remind Viola just how narrow her escape had been. And that setting herself against women who had learned survival at such terrible costs as the others had weathered, was not merely unwise, but dangerous.
Rose might regret this resolve. Indeed, she almost counted on it, but having her authority undermined, blatant untruths spewed in her own house? That was unacceptable.
With a sharp breath, she thrust her empty glass onto the spirits table and strode from the drawing room. Her steps clipped against the marble, echoing as though the house itself registered her anger.
Once up the stairs, she followed the sound of muffled voices. At the end of the corridor, she paused outside the nearest guest suite and rapped once, then entered.
The air was thick, humid, and perfumed with a faint, steamy cloud of lavender. Viola reclined in the copper tub, her head tilted back, her hand skimming the surface of the water. Her hair, damp and curling, clung to her temples. Her eyes, however, were not closed but fixed upon the high-back chair across the room.
Rose’s stomach tightened.
Inez’s gloves lay over the chair arm. The very pair Rose herself had given to her to warm her cold, horribly chapped hands. A gift to celebrate her bravery in escaping thatbeastly Billy Buster cutthroat. Now here they rested in Viola’s possession, silent as any accusation.
“The water is wonderful,” Viola murmured, voice as soft as the rising steam.
Rose did not immediately answer, letting the silence stretch while watching Viola closely. “Tell me, Miss Lockhart,” she said finally, “do you still have the coins I gave you earlier today?”
The girl’s hand froze mid-circle. Her eyes darted upward, wide and startled, before dropping again. “Yes, Lady Stanford,” she whispered. “Except for the amount I used for the hackney to come to your home.”
“Good.” Rose kept her voice cordial, deliberate. “You are welcome for the night. Tomorrow you will locate another place to stay.”
For a single, stunned heartbeat, Viola said nothing.
A second later, her chin wavered, trembling like a child’s. She pressed her lips together, as though words fought to escape, then burst out, “You would cast me out? Into the streets?”
Rose’s throat tightened. She forced her gaze toward the chair. To the gloves. “I will not have deceit under my roof.”
Viola’s cheeks drained of color, though she rallied quickly. “But those gloves are mine. I’ve had them for months.” Her voice rang with a haughty edge, but beneath it, Rose heard the quaver of desperation. “You mistake me.”
