Norfolk pushed a lock of gray hair from his face with bloodied fingertips.
“What happened here?” Emerson growled. “Where is Lady Stanford?”
“Lady Lockhart stabbed me, then went after Lady Stanford. I managed to latch onto her ankle after I’d fallen. She stumbled…”
“Stabbed you!” The man’s wife was not what one could refer to as calm under duress based on another hysterical screech that hit the rafters before collapsing once more.
“It barely scraped me.” Norfolk grunted. “Never thought this whalebone corset contraption would serve more than one purpose,” he said with a rusty laugh.
The noise in Emerson’s head sent his instincts thundering to deafening. He came to his feet. “Rose,” he shouted.
“Over here, near the windows.” Her panicked voice had him scrambling.
He found her sitting on the floor with his brother’s head in her lap. “Oh, Emerson,” she cried. “Something is wrong with your brother. I fear he is prone to seizures.”
Ben groaned, and his eyes flickered.
“No, darling. It’s not a seizure.”
“Where is your cravat?” Ben croaked out.
“Wrapped about Oscar’s wrists.”
“He’s alive?” Ben huffed out.
“Yes. But just so.”
Rose blasted him. “You tied himup?”
“Of course not, my love. He was in dire straits—”
“Please, say no more,” Ben begged. “Is it safe for me to rise?”
Emerson lifted his head and glanced around. A crowd surrounded a dead woman near the hearth, but the pool of blood was visible. “Only if you turn your head or use a handkerchief.”
Rose tugged one from her reticule. “I don’t understand.”
“I’ll explain later,” Emerson said, retrieving it from her and tossing it to Ben. “Let’s get out of here.”
Forty-Two
Rather than returning Rose home to Upper Brook Street, Emerson had given the direction to Manchester Square. Emerson didn’t seem fit for conversation, and she turned her gaze to the fog-shrouded night out the windows. She was comforted by his hand wrapping hers.
It took only moments to reach Manchester Square. Every window lighted the night sky, even through the heavy air. “Goodness, I wonder if they’ve enough candles,” she murmured as the hackney rolled to a stop.
“What’s going on?” Ben asked, stepping down.
“He hasn’t arrived.” The grimness in Emerson’s tone tugged at Rose. He turned and assisted her down.
“Your cousin?” Rose asked Emerson.
“The duke was seeing him home.”
Yates had the door open before they reached it and she followed Emerson and Ben inside. She found the library quite warming.
Yates, too. He showed none of the disdain that frequently emanated from Winston.
“What happened to him?” Ben asked. His features were so pale, Rose feared he was on the verge of collapsing again. Emerson pushed a glass of brandy in his hand that shook slightly, forcing him to clutch it with both hands.
