“I think he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. At least, I pray that is the case,” Emerson said, handing Rose a glass of her own.
The door opened, and Lord Stockton entered.
“My aunt.” His voice shook with violence. “She’s dead.” He moved into the room, stood there as if he’d forgotten how to walk.
“Sit down, Stockton. I’ll pour you a drink,” Emerson said.
Stockton made his way to a chair before the fire and dropped into it, his eyes vacant with shock.
“I believe you are acquainted with Lady Stanford.”
He shot to his feet. “My lady.” He appeared on the verge of tears.
“Please, Lord Stockton,” she said softly. “Sit. My deepest condolences.”
He looked at her, his expression bleak. “Is what Mr. Whitmore said true? That she sold Viola to a…a brothel?”
Rose caught Emerson’s wince but kept her focus on Stockton. “I fear so, sir. If it’s any consolation, she seems to have come through the ordeal unscathed.”
He blew out a pursed breath. “But she’s safe?”
“Yes.”
Oddly, Stockton’s gaze kept flicking to Rose, setting her nerve endings prickling. But he refrained from speaking.
Once more, Yates entered. This time bearing a silver tray. “A missive, sir.”
Emerson took the note and dropped down beside her. He broke the seal, and as he read, his jaw tightened and his cheeks flushed dark.
Rose reached over and touched his hand. “Emerson?”
“It’s another demand,” he bit out.
With all the confusion of the last few hours, Rose had nearly forgotten the blasted blackmail scheme. She retrieved the note and read the missive aloud.
Mr. Whitmore—
Our patience has reached its end. Deliver five thousand pounds behind the iron gate off Bedford Row by midnight if you value your lady’s good name. She has been seen in places no virtuous lady ought to tread, and certain incidents—damningincidents—may find their way to the broadsheets should you fail to comply. This is your final warning.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Rose snapped the paper. Vellum. “Who—”
Glass shattered from the spirits cabinet. Her head whipped up.
“It slipped,” Stockton said. His hand dripped with blood.
“Oh, God.” Ben’s glass fell to the floor but didn’t break as he slumped back in his chair.
“Stay where you are,” she commanded Stockton.
Emerson came to his feet and pulled on the bell chord, requesting Amir’s presence and a bowl of water.
Rose hurried over to assess the damage to Stockton’s hand. He was so stiff, she thought he would shatter. She glanced up to his face. It was as pale as Ben’s. “Don’t tell me you faint at the sight of blood as well,” she said with a smile and an attempt at humor.
“No, my lady.”
“How is he?” Emerson asked from behind her.
“I believe he shall survive. To my profound relief, no stitches appear required,” she said, still holding Stockton’s hand to stem the blood. “Did you notice anything strange about the note, Emerson?” She glanced over her shoulder to see him frowning.
