Emerson glanced at Amir, who silently backed from the room, latching the door behind him. Emerson took the seat across from his half brother. “All right, let’s have it.”
“I’ve decided to take you up on your offer, that’s all.” He sounded like a sullen child.
“You wish to move in here?” Emerson frowned, confused.
“Yes.” His expression reminded Emerson of the time Ben had been caught taking a piece of penny candy without paying for it. Emerson had taken him by the ear and dragged him back into the village store to confess to Mrs. Applebaum. Definitely a pout.
“Of course you are welcome here. But what changed your mind?”
“I just decided to, all right?” Now, belligerent. Interesting.
“Has Yates shown you your suite, then?”
“Yes. Yes.” Ben’s patience was not so usual, and Emerson suspected a bit of fear seeping through.
“I’m just curious, but what prompted this change of heart?”
“Do I require a reason to stay? Are you revoking the invitation?”
“Certainly not,” Emerson continued mildly, “but I wouldn’t mind an explanation.”
Ben threw back his brandy, stood, then paced the library.
A little chill stole around Emerson’s spine.
“It’s Stockton. He is certain Oscar is dead.” The grim expression on Ben’s face raised the hair on Emerson’s skin.
“I see. And why is he so certain?”
“I-I don’t know.” Again, that touch of fear whispered through Ben’s voice.
Emerson couldn’t quite fathom the shifts taking place inside him. Most distressing when he heard himself saying, “Perhaps you would consider working together?”
Ben stopped and faced him. “Together. You would do that?”
“Contrary to what you may believe, Benjamin, I have no desire to see you imprisoned, transported, or hung,” Emerson said gently.
Ten
Rose smoothed her palms over the wide ivory-colored sash and down the dark blue day gown of fine merino wool. She slipped into a matching waist-length pelisse trimmed in a matching ivory lace, then finally donning the matching hat—a foolish thing, trimmed in soft ivory ribbons and a single sweep of a dark blue feather that looked more at home at a garden party. Still, she set it upon her head. The touch of color was daring. Perhaps she needed both.
The feather quivered when she faced the mirror. It made her look…less severe. Younger, even. Irritated by the discovery, she snatched up her gloves and reticule, checked the mirror for the twenty-third time in all of twenty minutes, then made her way down the stairs. “The time, Winston.”
“One minute after ten of the clock, madam.”
She knew that, of course. She couldn’t explain her nervousness, and she certainly didn’t like the feeling. Maybe that was one of the reasons she’d married Stanford. He’d been malleable. Or so she’d believed, she thought, scowling. She cringed thinking of all she’d divulged to Mr., er, Emerson the night before.
How tempting it had been to pull the coverlet over her head this morning and pretend last night had never occurred. But that was not the newAdventurousRose. The thought had been enough to prod her from her warm bed and call for a bath at the ungodly hour of seven that morning.
As she stepped outside, the morning sun had her squinting against a hazy, bright London sun even if it was muted by the coal-filled sky. Adjusting her hat, she then quickly moved down the walk through the gate to the street—and blinked.
No carriage. She checked the watch clipped to her bodice. Two minutes after ten.
One minute?The blighter hadn’t shown up in the first place.
A whistle split the air, and she jumped. She glanced up then down the cobbled street, but the only person in sight was a man atop a public hackney. She looked closer and was almost certain she spotted Emerson Whitmore seated inside, peering at her from the window.
Seething, she marched across the street. His driver stepped down and had the carriage door open and quickly assisted her inside, bringing her face-to-face with Mr. Whitmore’s fierce scowl.
