“Yes.” Emerson came slowly to his feet. “And if he’s here, then—”
Stockton rushed from the back of the warehouse. “Mr. Whitmore? Thank God.”
Emerson pulled up. “What’s going on here?”
“A man by the name of Cutter or something came in swinging,” he said in a rush. “Accused Lady Stanford of stealing one of his tarts.”
So, not Billy. “Where’s Ben?” Emerson demanded.
“He left early. He said you wished him to accompany you and Lady Stanford to Norfolk’s tonight…” His gaze caught sight of the duke, and he swallowed hard. “Your Grace?”
“Go on with your explanation, Stockton,” Ryleigh said. “I understand you are now gainfully employed. I sincerely hope you do not squander the opportunity.”
“Er, yes, Your Grace.” Stockton drew in a deep breath. “Hurry. Follow me.” He took off in a run down the narrow passage from where he’d emerged, between stacked crates to a storage closet at the back. Before he could say more, Emerson heard a groan, and he rushed for the open door.
The stench nearly felled him. “What the devil? Bring a light.”
Stockton held up a lantern.
The man slumped inside was bound hand and foot, a gag shoved cruelly between cracked lips. His face was gaunt and bloodied. His coat, once fine, was caked with grime. The signet ring on his swollen hand glimmered in the lamplight.
“I found him like this. I don’t know how long he’s been here. He’s in bad shape.”
“Oscar,” Emerson breathed.
Behind him came Ryleigh’s swear and sharp gasp from Stockton.
Emerson yanked a dagger from his boot and dropped to his knees, slicing the cords free. Oscar sagged into his arms, his weight alarmingly slight. Gag yanked free, Oscar gasped, a broken, rasping sound. Emerson’s stomach turned as he caught sight of his cousin’s fingers—everyone bent at an unnatural angle, knuckles ballooned black-and-blue.
“Who did this?” Emerson demanded, though his cousin could scarcely breathe, let alone answer.
Oscar’s eyes fluttered open, clouded with pain. His lips moved. Emerson bent close, his ear against cracked teeth.
“The… baroness…is…she…” The whisper was a ghost of a sound.
Emerson froze. His heart slammed once, twice, before the word fully registered. Rose?
“No.” He wanted to shake him, but it would likely kill him. “What about the baroness?”
But Oscar had collapsed into unconsciousness, his breath shallow, his pulse faint.
Ryleigh’s hand clamped Emerson’s shoulder. “We cannot linger. If what he said is true, then my sister is in peril.”
“Yes. And God help anyone who lays a hand on her,” he bit out.
Forty-One
“See?” the Duchess of Ryleigh directed at Rose. “I’m not usually one to say I told you so—”
“Hmm,” Gabriella interrupted with a sly glance. “That is not my experience with you, Rebecca.”
Inside, Rose was stunned at the rapprochement swirling around her. Only months ago, she would have bristled at Rebecca’s words. Would have been green with envy at their easy teasing banter. But tonight, at Norfolk’s fall soiree, Rose was a welcomed participant.
Rebecca sniffed, ignoring Gabriella. “Things are never as dire as we imagine them, Rose.”
“I must say,” Gabriella told Rose, “you handled Viola with just the right amount of sternness and compassion. Why, I vow the girl has learned a valuable lesson.”
“You know? I think I did as well,” Rose said smiling, confidence thrumming through her.
