“Ah. My sister and sister-in-law are the benefactors of a home for unfortunate young women. They need dresses.”
“Er, unfortunate—I don’t follow.” Emerson managed to finish off the awful brandy without gagging.
“Hope House, they’ve dubbed it.” She held up her empty glass. “This is quite abhorrent, isn’t it?”
He opted not to respond to that. “I believe I have heard of their works. But why do you refer to those you are assisting as unfortunate?”
“Oh, the girls are not unfortunate. Their situations are.” She frowned. “Or were, I should have said.”
He confiscated her glass and set them both on a nearby table. “In what way?”
“They’ve been horribly abused. Some are even with child.” She went to the windows and looked out over the dark night. “One young woman who was believed to have been carrying Stanford’s offspring was attacked and has since perished.” Her voice had dropped, and he had to strain to hear. “I had to do something to help. I accused my sister of killing my husband. I told her it was normal for a man to take a mistress and one should just do her duty and turn away from an unloving—worse, a disrespectful—husband. It was no wonder she hated me.”
Emerson was stunned. Who could possibly dislike this magnificent woman? “Who hated you?” he asked, matching his tone to hers. Low. Unintrusive.
But he caught her reflection in the window and she blinked, appearing to come out of a trance. She shook her head. “Forgive me, Mr. Whitmore. I shouldn’t be ruminating.” She turned a bright smile on him. “Not aloud anyway.”
“You were to call me Emerson as I recall.”
Her smile faltered. “Of course. Emerson.” She flung a hand toward the door, but he caught it within his own and tugged her to him.
He ached to kiss away the distress she attempted to disguise behind her smile. But again, now was not the time. It would appear he had all day tomorrow.
“You should go,” she said, somewhat prickly.
He gave her hands a light squeeze. “Of course. I’ll see you in the morning. Ten o’clock. Wear something dark.” He leaned in and breathed in the bright spring fragrance of her hair. “By the bye, you smell nothing like roses. I’ve learned much this evening.”
“Oh?”
He grinned. “Orange blossoms do not have thorns.”
She pushed away from him, giving him that teethy smile. “Perhaps I’m what you might call…a hybrid.”
Nine
Emerson entered his temporary home on Manchester Square feeling somewhat…exhilarated. It would do no good in telling himself he didn’t know the source of this unusual euphoria. No, he put that directly on Lady Stanford’s enticing shoulders. Yates met him at the door, and he handed off his hat and gloves. “Have Amir meet me in the library.”
“Very good, sir.”
He went up the stairs and into the library, anxious to dispel the acrid taste of brandy he’d been forced to endure. From the nearby cabinet, he poured out a couple of glasses.
Amir entered, and Emerson handed him one.
“Send a case of my best brandy to Stanford House on Upper Brook Street. It’s desperately needed.”
“Of course. Incidentally, your bro—”
He was cut off by the door flying back. “Ah, Benjamin.”
“—ther has moved in,” Amir finished under his breath.
Emerson turned to his brother. “Care for a brandy, Ben?”
“Yes,” he said, shooting Amir a glare.
Emerson handed over his own untouched glass then poured out another for himself. “I didn’t expect to see you so quickly. How did I rate the pleasure of your company so soon?”
Ben stalked over to one of the chairs before the fire and dropped down without speaking.
