Rose spun on a slippered foot and ran for the stairs and down to the morning room. Theemptymorning room, where the fragrance of freshly baked bread wafted up from the kitchens. She hurried to the dining room.
Again, empty.
“Madam?”
Rose glanced up, meeting Winston’s furrowed brows as he held a polishing rag of some sort. “I’m looking for Miss Lockhart. She’s not in her chamber.” She couldn’t believe how calm she sounded while her insides rioted. “Have the house searched, Winston. Do not delay.” She turned to Jane. “Come. Help me dress. I must find the little termagant.” This she uttered underher breath.Heavens, what did the reckless chit think to do? Think to go!
Once properly attired, Rose went back to the morning room and stared at the small fire that had been laid in the grate, rubbing the hollow ache gnawing at her chest. Frustration. Irritation.Guilt.Of course Viola had run. Rose herself had given the girl no other option.
“My lady?”
Rose turned around, hope filling her until noting Winston’s grim expression.
“Nothing?” she said.
“She departed through the kitchens, according to Cook. It should reassure you to know that she armed herself with a loaf of bread wrapped in a towel.”
Rose sank into a chair, the truth settling over her with merciless clarity. Emerson had told her she would regret it, that she would feel the burden of guilt if she turned the girl out.
He was right. He had been right all along.
“That will be all, Winston,” she said, hardly able to get the words out.
Tears filled her eyes. She pressed a fist to her mouth, her heart swelling painfully. Oh, how wise she’d thought herself, believed determination and lofty ideals were enough to shield girls from the world’s cruelties. Foolish. Naive. What did she know of fresh starts and opportunity? Something she should ask about instead of lecturing on.
She hadn’t asked Viola what she wanted—or any of the girls. Blast it! She—Rose—wasa hazard to their well-being, their very future. She’d been playing tea with them when what they truly needed were life skills to survive.
Lord Brockway’s safeguarding lessons.
And what did she know of that sort of survival?
Nothing! Absolutely nothing. She was a duke’s daughter, now a duke’s sister. Outside of the royal family, she was one of the most privileged women in England.
Now Viola was gone, and the fault lay squarely with her.
She went to the escritoire and dashed off a note to Lady Brockway, demanding—requesting—a meeting with his lordship to begin instructions at his earliest convenience. Adding a postscript that Lady Cecelia’s assistance would be most helpful.
Rose dropped the quill, still at a loss. Where was she to turn now?
She wanted—needed—to speak with Emerson. But what could she say to him outside of admitting her failure? A futile notion because he’d warned her. He would take her by the arms then shake her and tell her he’d told her so, in no uncertain terms. Or, worse, he’d just be…disappointed…in her.
He had faced truths she had only begun to glimpse, truths born of hardship and shadows she had never endured. For one wild moment, she longed to go to him now, this very moment, confess how very wrong she had been, admit that she could not bear this weight alone. But for her ridiculous pride.
Perhaps it was time for Adventurous Rose to step aside. The real possibility that she’d signed Viola Lockhart’s death warrant sickened her. She could not put other young girls at risk. If the others learned that Viola had fled, what hope remained to steady them in her own presence?
But something inside Rose shifted, fired by a surge of anger. No longer was she the pathetic wife of a useless baron. Hadn’t she’d tried to help the girl? A reckless, selfish chit who’d treated those meaning to keep her safe with disdain and brazen ingratitude.
Still, something must be done. Somehow Rose had to find her. She paced the drawing room, her thoughts scattering in a million different directions. Emerson was right. She had riskedher own life to assist the ungrateful wretch. But where to find her…
~~~
Emerson hadn’t slept a wink. Not for the throbbing ache that still pulled at his side—and his nether regions—though the wound was bound tight and healing, but because his mind refused to shut off. His thoughts obsessed over Rose’s luscious mouth, the clutch in his chest at her worry over the stitches she’d bravely sewn upwithout fainting.Her boldness had drawn him in from the moment he’d met her at Shufflebottom’s masquerade—a place she’d had no business attending. He let out a long breath and wondered if Rose was suffering the same as he.
And now, the absurdity of the task ahead.
Two, actually, he thought grimly.
Amir held out a subdued waistcoat of soft cream silk.
