“Like what?”
“The handwriting. It’s different from the previous note I saw.”
Stockton tried pulling his hand from her. “Sir, I must insist you remain steady or you will damage the carpets.”
“Lord Stockton,” Emerson said slowly, “is there something you wish to tell me?”
Amir entered with the bowl of water. “Who is dying now?”
“You mustn’t tease so,” Rose admonished. “Lord Stockton has cut his hand. But it doesn’t look too serious. A good cleaning and dousing of spirits and a bandage should do him well.” She stepped back, folding her arms beneath her breasts. “I do admit my curiosity in hearing his answer to Emerson’s question.”
“Stockton? If you please.” Emerson’s tone brooked no argument. The man was stuck.
There was a slight hiss, however, when Amir poured whiskey over the wound before binding it up.
Rose stepped forward, slipped her arm through Stockton’s, and led him to his chair where Ben was just coming to. “There, there, Lord Stockton. You’ll feel much freer once you’ve unloaded the burden weighing you down.”
“We’ll have the whole of it, Stockton. The truth.” The hardness in Emerson’s voice left no doubt in Rose of the coming result.
Rose never felt so sorry for someone. Stockton looked as if he were about to cry. The color had returned to Ben’s cheeks in a harsh scarlet of fury. “Go on, my lord. You have everyone’s attention.”
“The idea was…mine.” His eyes darted to Rose. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
She reached over and squeezed his hand.
Stockton rubbed a palm over his eyes, blinking fiercely. “We were all in our cups, you see. Shufflebottom encouraged our unruly behavior—not that there is any excuse,” he said quickly. “He supplied the liquor, took us to the hells, handled our vowels to the tune of thousands.” He glanced at Ben. “Except for you. I never understood it.”
“I didn’t wish to be beholden,” Ben said.
“To me,” Emerson finished.
“To you.” Ben shrugged. “To anyone.”
“Of course, we—Collier, Gorman, Lampert, me—were drunk as fools when we came up with the notion. We knew that you, Mr. Whitmore, were loaded with funds. We also knew that Ben was in line for the earldom. Nor did it hurt that the two of you were at odds.” He let out a sigh. “Besides, no one had seen or set sight on Hallandale’s heir for an age. We believed Massey’s pockets would be plump enough and quickly.”
“You threatened Lady Stanford,” Emerson bit out. “Not once, not even twice. Butthree times.”
Rose winced but remained quiet.
Stockton’s face turned a humiliating shade of red. “I told the others we were done for. The scheme was too fraught with danger. Especially once Ben chose to take up residence with you.”
“Collier. He was the most determined. He owes the most, you see.”
“What of Hallandale?” Ben gritted out. “You went to Sussex.”
Stockton flinched. “We only thought to speak to him when we learned he landed back on English soil.”
“But you acted as if you knew his fate,” Ben protested, outraged.
“We only thought to speak to him for a loan. But he was gone when we arrived,” Stockton said.
“And you didn’t have anything to do with his broken fingers and the state of his ill health?” The rigid, cold unforgiveness in Emerson’s voice frightened Rose. “You didn’t giveBillyaccess to him?”
“No! I found him just before you arrived,” Stockton cried, shuddering. “I was afraid to touch him, of further hurting him.”
Emerson’s glance moved between Ben and Stockton. “You were there all afternoon. Did you see anything?”
“No.” Ben’s face was as white as soured milk. “Broken fingers?” he croaked.
