“Yes, sir,” Stockton near choked out.
With a sharp nod, Emerson headed to Ben’s chamber and issued the same command with one stipulation: to return earlyenough to accompany him and Rose to the Norfolks’ soiree. He slipped out the door and down the stairs, where Amir waited to hand him off to his next unavoidable, and perhaps his less pleasing task. The meeting with the Countess of Kimpton.
Amir held out a well-cut, single breasted frockcoat of dark brown—excellent for hiding blood should there be need—for him, then settled the beaver hat on his head. Yes indeed, this was not a meeting he was looking forward to.
Except…he stopped, smoothing a slow hand over the crisp starched fabric of his cravat as a thought took hold. Perhaps there was something else with which the countess could assist him.
“What is it?” Amir asked him.
Emerson blinked, startled from his musings. “What is what?” he said lightly. His friend of too many years to count knew him too well, even as a sense of determination pumped through him.
“I’ll drive the phaeton to see Lady Kimpton,” he said, deflecting. He had no desire to examine his own feelings for Rose aloud. “Otherwise, I risk Lady Stanford’s wrath again for more torn stitches.”
“She’s a very impressive woman,” Amir said thoughtfully.
On that, Emerson wholeheartedly agreed. “I’d like you to see Ben and Stockton to the warehouse for their first half day of employment. I don’t foresee trouble with Ben. Stockton, however, is another matter.” Giving his brother a position over Stockton should go far in the restitution Emerson owed Ben for what he’d suffered at the hands of Stockton and his ilk from their school years.
Amir grinned and inclined his head. “Of course. It will be my pleasure.”
Emerson found the Kimptons’ townhouse easily enough. It rose from the orderly row of brick and stone like a monument to respectability. It was surrounded by a large garden andhuge stone steps. Emerson smoothed his gloves, scowling at his reflection in the brass knocker, and gave it a sharp rap. The door opened instantly by an ancient butler with a liveried footman standing nearby. He ushered Emerson into a generous foyer. “Sir?”
Emerson handed over his card. “Mr. Emerson Whitmore to see Lady Kimpton…if she is available,” he said, voice stiff, though every instinct in him rebelled at the ritual.
The elderly man accepted his card and set it on a shiny silver tray, inclined his head at Emerson. He then shuffled past the stairs to somewhere beyond, leaving Emerson under the watchful eyes of the footman. Within moments, he returned.
“Your hat and gloves, sir.”
Emerson stripped off both and handed them to the footman then followed the butler into a bright morning room. Sunlight poured across embroidered chairs and a polished pianoforte. On a settee near the hearth, Lady Kimpton leaned forward, appearing to stash her mending in a basket at her feet.
She was a beautiful woman, close in age to Rose, he suspected. Graceful with the easy bearing of one accustomed to command. Her flaxen hair and blue eyes were stunning. The faintly amused expression on her face surprised him. He’d expected cool or guarded. Apparently, she had already guessed the awkwardness of his errand.
She rose from her chair, extending a lily-white hand. “Mr. Whitmore, a surprise to be sure.” She indicated the chair across from her. “Please, join me. I’ve called for tea.” Her head tilted to one side. “Coffee as well. You look like a man who prefers coffee.”
“I would gladly welcome coffee,” he said, oddly touched. He bowed and lowered into the chair she indicated, tugging at his cuffs. “I hope I’m not intruding upon your morning.”
“Not at all. I find callers who look as though they would rather be shot than enter my drawing room rather diverting.” Her eyes sparkled, but her tone held no malice.
Emerson covered a short laugh with a cough that tugged at his stitches. He took a shallow breath. “Surely I don’t look as reluctant as that,” he countered.
“Perhaps not quite,” she relented. She clasped her hands in her lap. “Now, what brings about this visit where you don’t look as if you’d prefer being shot?”
There was a tap at the door, and a maid entered with a large tray bearing a silver service.
Emerson accepted his coffee. Black. “Before I address the true reason for my call, a matter of concern has come to my attention that I would place before you, Lady Kimpton. A young lady of my acquaintance has been most…er, poorly treated by her relation.”
Lady Kimpton frowned. “Surely Lady Stanford—”
“No, no,” he quickly assured her. He paused for a long moment. Then, drawing in another shallow breath along with a hope Rose would not wish him shot as much as he himself did not, he opted for the truth…er, most of the truth. “Might I speak freely, my lady?”
“I find that works best in most instances, sir.” Something behind her words told him she knew of what she spoke. It struck him as quite personal, though her neutral expression didn’t shift for an iota.
Emerson inclined his head. “A young lady, Miss Viola Lockhart was found in Whitefriars a few days ago. She said—and, again, forgive my frankness—that her aunt, Lady Lockhart, had sold her to a brothel.”
Lady Kimpton gasped a sharp breath, any sign of her previous amusement vanquished. Her back straightened, her eyes kindling with sudden fire. “Herniece?”
He inclined his head. “Yes. The girl, Miss Viola Lockhart. Lady Stanford has spoken with me of her distress, but…” He trailed off, uncertain how to phrase his need for Lady Kimpton’s help without sounding clumsy. “I confess, I have no notion how such matters are handled in your world. It is not mine.”
“Cruelty and neglect are not confined to one world, Mr. Whitmore,” she said sharply. “And Lady Lockhart is well known to me. A most abhorrent woman.”
