He eyed it dubiously. “Truly, Amir, white? If I should bleed through my bandages, Lady Kimpton—if she sees me—is likely to collapse.”
“I thought it a wise choice. It might keep you from resorting to your fists.” But he went to the wardrobe and replaced it with one of rusted brown silk and gold thread, then held it out.
“Better.” Mindful of his stitches, Emerson carefully slipped into it and buttoned it over the white linen shirt. He tugged the sleeves into place and allowed Amir to adjust his simply knotted cravat.
He marched down the hall where a footmen leaned casually against the wall. “Has the man stirred?”
“Still as a corpse, sir.”
A jest, Emerson hoped. “Fine, then. Get some rest. Our guest no longer requires looking after.” This he delivered with a diabolical smile.
The footman inclined his head and disappeared into the servant stairwell.
Emerson entered the chamber and wrinkled his nose.
Stockton lay on his back still fully dressed, one hand flattened on his chest and his mouth hanging open. The man reeked of stale alcohol and cigar smoke. Emerson moved to the side of the bed and stared down at him. In sleep, when he wasn’t running his mouth, one could detect the family resemblance to Miss Lockhart, and also ascertain how truly young Stockton was. What a waste.
With a closed fist, Emerson nudged his shoulder. The response was a shuddering snore and a sad attempt at rolling over.
“Stockton,” he bit out sharply, pushing a tad harder on his shoulder.
Stockton’s eyes flickered, then opened. Confusion clouded his vision, then cleared as it seemed to register who stood above him. He bolted to sitting. “What the devil?” he croaked out.
“Welcome to the world of the living, Lord Stockton. It’s time we talked.”
His lips turned down in a petulant pout. “What about?”
“I’ve paid the vowels in which Shufflebottom had you by the throat.”
“You were serious?”
“Of course. It’s my contribution to Society in keeping you off the streets. You and Ben are to meet my man, Haber is his name, at noon. You’ll start from the bottom up.” Emerson offered Stockton the same smile he’d given the footman. “Reporting to me.”
“And if I choose not to?”
“A Bow Street runner will execute the warrant I’ve had drawn up, and you’ll be escorted directly to Fleet.”
“How long? How long must I work for you?”
“Your debt comes to near five-thousand pounds.”
“I shall be an old man by the time I pay that.” His screech, near feminine, likely reached the attics.
“Quite so,” Emerson said. “As it turns out, I’ve been able to negotiate it down to a mere twenty-five hundred.” He held out a palm, staying an interruption. “However, that is still a considerable amount out of my pocket. So, in return, you shall work six days per week. Your hours will be nine in the morning until six in the evening. You will not be late. Six months should suffice. Just know, there will be no excuses, no imbibing on the premises, no tardiness. You shall receive a quarterly wage of two hundred and fifty pounds and an allowance of two days off per month as long as you’ve given a week’s notice. I recommend steering clear of the hells. Are there any questions?”
A long, tense pause ensued. “No,” Stockton said.
“You’ll love it.” Emerson grinned. “Better to show a man the means than merely supply him. And calling you a man is being generous. I recommend a hearty breakfast and much coffee to start.” He went to the door. “By the bye, I understand Viola Lockhart is your cousin.”
“That prickly chit? What of her?”
Anger surged through Emerson where his fingers shook a little. “Your title would serve you better by looking after those who depend on you.”
Saintly sorts. That was how Rose had described the two of them. He couldn’t decide if he was surprised or disgusted.
What more was there to say? Miss Lockhart was safe enough in Rose’s capable hands.
“I give you leave to live here, and later Ratcliff once I rearrange a few lingering matters. Are we clear on this, mylord?”
