Emerson took her arm and guided her through a narrow pathway to the bolts of fabrics. “Now, tell me more about these young women.”
She took a deep breath. “There are approximately six to eight young women. One girl is as young as fourteen. She is, ah, carrying.” Heat rushed into her face.
“A child. Not of her choice, I take it?”
“Yes, and no, I don’t believe so.”
“She hails from London?”
“I-I’m uncertain. She is of African descent. At least, I believe she is. Her name is Kadida. They are all from different walks, I believe. My sister, Lady Huntley, and our sister-in-law, the Duchess of Ryleigh, rescued them. Some are from the theater, some from the, er, streets. All at grave disadvantage.”
Following a path to the back of the warehouse through boxes of tea and spices from the Orient, inexpensive china, carpets, flooring and other textiles, furnishings, and antiquities, Emerson guided his guest into a large storage chamber near two stories high with shelves holding bolts of fabric from bombazine to the grandest silks, to fine lawn, to sturdy wool in every color imaginable.
“My goodness, I’d no idea,” Rose breathed. The sound seemed to wrap his spine in a cocoon of sensation better left undefined.
He found himself staring at her slightly parted mouth then started, giving himself a mental shake. “Typically, I would have met you at my storefront in Soho.”
She faced him, surprised. “Why didn’t you?”
“You didn’t give me much notice,” he said. There was also the little stubborn part of him that couldn’t resist seeing her reaction to his vast holdings. Vain of him? Apparently. A confusing conundrum, as he’d never cared before what others thought or believed of him. “The warehouse holds a more vast selection.”
She slipped off a glove and ran an elegant fingertip over a selection of plush velvet. “Goodness, if I’d foundthisparticular black, I might have served out my full year of mourning,” she murmured. To herself, it appeared.
“Black is definitely not your color.” He poked around a particular stack of stunning silk and pulled one of rich bronze with depths so rich, colors rippled across that picked up the lighter streaks in her hair.
“Oh, my,” she breathed. “This is lovely.”
“I suspect it won’t serve for your young women at Hope House,” he said with a bite of regret.
She spun, facing him, her shoulders reared back with the abrupt straightening of her spine and a scowl marring her lovely lips. “And why not? This shall likely be the only frivolous frocksthey shall ever own in their entire lifetime, and I intend to see they enjoy them immensely.” That ducal upbringing of hers sounding throughout the chamber was barely absorbed by the mounds of bolts that nearly reached the ceiling.
He set the bronze silk aside. “And where do you propose they are to wear these frocks? Their come-out ball? A garden party perhaps?”
“My sister is hosting a tea. After that, well, I suppose they’ll eventually be free to search out employment of some sort and perhaps sell the dress…” Her voice trailed off as if saddened by the eventuality of her statement.
He frowned. “They aren’t free now?”
Rose lifted one shoulder and turned back to her perusal of a stack of fine wool. She snapped her fingers. “They deserve one nice gown in their life. In fact, I absolutely insist they will.”
“Tea. With your sister.” Someone needed to maintain their common sense. “My lady, that does not seem very practical.”
A stubbornness firmed her pointed chin, and she moved to the silks and muslins: peach, yellow, emerald, ivory, cerulean. Her stack was growing somewhat unwieldy.
For every bolt she pulled out, he did the same with the cotton and linen—all differing shades of white—and set them atop of the one very special bolt of silk he was certain she would turn away. But he would deal with that argument when the time presented itself. From the wool, he started another stack, adding bolts of gray, dark blue, olive, taupe, and various dark greens.
He eyed the two stacks that would likely cost him a couple hundred quid. Yet he could afford it. He would consider this his one good deed from the past fifteen years. He let out a sigh. “If you will kindly provide the direction, I shall have them delivered to Hope House. What of a seamstress?”
“We have one in house.”
“By the bye, your brother is hosting a dinner with the prime minister tonight. I assume you will be attending?”
She groaned.
Emerson patted her shoulder. “I shall need entry by nine.”
“My brother is not part of any nefarious deeds, Mr. Whitmore,” she said, eyes flashing.
“Perhaps not, but he may know of someone who is.” He took her hand. “Come, we must leave. Every minute you are here offers the possibility of someone recognizing you, and that is a complication neither of us need.”
