She breathed fire. “How dare you—”
His gaze raked over her. “Isthatwhat you’re wearing?”
They spoke simultaneously, but it didn’t stop there.
His gaze jerked to hers. “I thought you didn’t wish anyone to see us together.”
“That’s no excuse for being late—”
An annoying little smile tipped his lips. “I wasn’t late.”
She shook her head, annoyed at herself at his matter-of-factness and the truth of his statement. She lifted her nose. “What’s wrong with what I have on?” Her eyes fell to her bright blue day dress. It was one of her favorites.
“What part of ‘dark’ did you not understand? The purpose of this tête-à-tête is discretion. You shine like a blasted beacon.” He whipped off his greatcoat and dropped it around her shoulders, tied it at her neck himself. “Donotremove it.” He banged on the ceiling of the conveyance, sending it rocking into motion. “And that hat—” he growled. Then shook his head as if lost for cordial enough words to finish.
She turned her gaze out the window, blinking quickly at the sudden urge to cry. She willed the tears not to fall. His quickintake filled the cab. She ignored it. Ignored him. This was her adventure.
The ride was quiet, but not uneventful.
As they drew closer to the docks, the pungency of the Thames seeped in as did the raucous noise from the lower classes roaming the tiny curving streets. If something happened, she’d never be able to find her way home. And that was if she wasn’t accosted first. Whathadshe been thinking?
Despite it all, Rose felt safe within the confines of Mr. Whitmore’s unmarked carriage—no, it wasn’t that. It was him. There was something uniquely intimidating about his presence that made her feel safe. Safer than she’d ever felt in Stanford’s company. It wasn’t even a just comparison.
The urge to cry fell away, and she searched her mind for something to say. Nothing surfaced but the weather, and he didn’t appear the sort to have patience with small talk. He was a man who preferred dealing with matters head on, she suspected.
“We’ve arrived,” he said in that gravelly tone that seemed to resonate beneath her skin like an unbecoming itch.
~~~
Emerson waited until the steps had been flipped then stepped out and assisted his companion down.
Between clenched gloved fingers, Rose clutched his greatcoat at the neck, keeping it closed. For half a second, he regretted demanding so harshly she wear it. Curiosity lit her watchful gaze as she stepped from the carriage, that blue feather bouncing from hitting the arch of the carriage door.
The fetching dark blue hat that matched her gown to perfection intensified the green of her eyes even in the cloudy skies. The mahogany curls at her temples gleaming with streaks of bronze left him wondering what she’d done with all that hair. She was quite…intriguing.
He held out his arm. “Shall we?”
Only the stretched kid leather across her knuckles in her hold betrayed her discomfort.
“Come back in a half hour,” he told Amir. He didn’t think they would run into anyone she knew, but better safe than risking ruin.
Emerson escorted her through the sturdy oak door of the nondescript bricked building and to the offices of Whitmore Wholesale Warehouse. “Ah, Faulk, may I present Lady Stanford? She is here to find fabric for the young women of…”
“Hope House,” she supplied without missing a beat.
The expression on the staid Faulk was almost comical. “Faulk Haber, my warehouse manager, my lady.”
“I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Haber,” Rose said with the graciousness of a duchess.
Red stained Faulk’s robust face up to and over his bald head.
“Who is in the warehouse currently, Faulk?”
“A few of the workers, sir. No visitors.”
“Excellent.” He turned to Rose. “Come along, Lady Stanford.”
She inclined her head in Faulk’s direction. “Mr. Haber.”
