Emerson backed away in a single motion, all that cold washing away beneath a tide of urgent heat.
“Whitmore.” Ryleigh blocked him with a palm to the chest. “You’ll not charge blind into a nest.”
“If the woman has no objection to selling her niece to a brothel, she’s not above murder. I have to get to Rose,” Emerson said, stepping around the duke. “Keep my cousin breathing.” He glanced over, caught Stockton’s pale face.
“Myauntsoldmy cousin…” he choked out.
“I’m sorry, Stockton.” He attempted to gentle his voice with much doubt he’d succeeded. “Call the watch and secure the warehouse before you leave.”
Stockton nodded and strode away with a new sense of—determined, perhaps—purpose.
At once, Emerson realized he could trust the younger man.
Outside, river fog rolled thick, devouring the lantern glow at twenty paces. The Thames sighed like a sleeping beast, sighing after swallowing Billy. Emerson would have preferred dealing with Billy himself, but as Faulk said on his last breath, Billy couldn’t hurt anyone now. A hackney rattled by, and he caught its rail, swinging himself up even as Amir vaulted onto the step behind.
“Mayfair,” Emerson snapped to the startled cabbie, wrenching the reins into his own hands. “Hard as he’ll go.”
The horse leapt. Wheels scraped and clattered. Crates loomed and vanished. An ale dray lurched from a lane, and Emerson hauled up the gelding’s head, skidding an inch from the dray’s iron-rimmed wheel. A man in a tarpaulin cursed, and Amir’s gasp—quick—whipped away on the wind.
“You should have been a coachman,” Amir called over the thunder of hooves.
“I should have been at a ball with my wife to be,” Emerson returned, teeth bared.
They cut north, the fog thinning to damp air and flickering lamps. The city changed beneath the horse’s iron—slums to tradesmen’s fronts to the smooth, complacent mask of Mayfair. At Grosvenor Square, the night shone as a wash of crystal light poured from high windows. Music floated to the street—violins sweet as sin.
Emerson’s fingers tightened on the leather. Norfolk’s gilded house blazed like temptation itself, banners and banks of hothouse flowers framing the door. A queue of coaches clogged the approach.
He tugged on the reins. The horse blew hard, its breath steaming, and the wheels skittered over crushed stone. He tossed the ribbons to the stunned cabbie, jumped down and ran for the door.
The footman manning the entrance stood stock still, his mouth hanging open, apparently too stunned to stop Emerson from darting around him.
“Mr. Whitmore.” Emerson announced himself as dryly as he could manage. “I’m here for Lady Stanford.”
“But, sir, you’ve—” The footman swallowed. “You’ve no cravat…”
Emerson glanced down then back up, his resolve resolute. “Quite so, sir.”
Like the duke, the footman offered no further protest and opened the ballroom door, hitting Emerson with a wave of warmth, light, and perfume full in the face. Chandeliers were like crushed stars, a hundred bodies moving in civilized patterns while the city outside rotted on its pilings.
Rose was nowhere to be seen. He did spot the duchess, however.
“Mr. Whitmore? I thought you and Ryleigh were off to Canterbury.” Her eyes raked over his dusty coat and widened at the lack of his cravat.
“Where’s Rose?”
She glanced over the dancers, frowning. “I could have sworn I saw her dancing with your brother, but I don’t see either of them now.” The duchess let out a harsh gasp. “Neither do I see Lady Lockhart.”
Damn it, Rose.“Where’s Norfolk?”In particular, his office.
A piercing scream that sent the violins screeching to a halt rent the house.
His stomach took a dangerous dip, and he hurried, with the duchess on his arm, up the stairs as they dashed for the end of the corridor. A matronly woman lay collapsed beneath the arch of the one open door. “Call for the constable,” he shouted, hoping someone would heed the instruction. “Faster, Your Grace,” he said pleasantly to Rebecca, picking up his own pace.
“What’s going on?” Lady Huntley demanded from behind. “What the devil’s wrong with Lady Norfolk?” She scurried past Emerson and the duchess. Emerson ran after her, dragging the duchess along.
Emerson entered a large, impressive study with too much furniture that smelled of intelligence and use and…blood. A quick glance about the room showed no Rose, and his gut coiled tighter.
Lord Norfolk was attempting to sit, and Emerson abandoned the duchess and Lady Huntley to assist him, fighting the dread inundating him.
