Eleven
Rose’s aggravation emanated from her like a heavy fog, nearly choking on it. She could only imagine what her host could see. He was the most irritating man she’d ever encountered. Even Stanford hadn’t been able to elicit such depths of irritation from her. Mr. Emerson Whitmore acted as if she were the inappropriate company. Why, she was a baroness and a duke’s sister! How dare he treat her so inconsequently. He certainly wouldn’t if she were one of her sisters, she inwardly fumed.
He led her to the carriage with a light touch on her arm that seem to burn her skin through his greatcoat she still wore, even past her pelisse. “You may drop me at Hatchards. I wish to purchase books for the girls.”
“I’ll do no such thing.” His mild tone ratcheted up her temper.
“And why not, may I ask?”
He opened the carriage door, but something caught her eye from down the narrow lane and she stopped.
“What the devil?” In a flash she was away and striding down the cobbled street to the opposite side to the corner. “You there,” she called out to a miscreant. The devil had a beleaguered woman by the scruff of her frock. “Let her go!”
“Damn me. Lady Stanford, what the hell do you think you are about?” Mr. Whitmore’s words were a furious hiss, indicating how close he was on her heels. “Stop, right this minute.”
She didn’t. Who did he think he was to dictate to her? She strode right up to the scoundrel and punched the top of his arm with her fist.
“Blimey! Wot the heel do ye think yer about?”
“I insist you quit manhandling this woman. Right this minute.”
Fury radiated off Mr. Whitmore, but Rose was becoming quite proficient in ignoring him.
The scoundrel’s eyes narrowed on her. Moved to the top of her favorite hat and to the now parted greatcoat.
She raised her chin and clutched the edges together, but not before he’d seen the richness of her fine woolen dress.
“And what’ll ye give me for ’er?”
She frowned. “Give you for her? I don’t understand.”
“He’s offering to sell her to you,” Mr. Whitmore said.
“Sell her—”
“She’s me wife, and she ain’t carrying ’er bit o’ the ’ouse’old ’spenses, milady.”
Rose glanced at the young woman’s threadbare dress that exposed bruises along her collarbone. Dread filled her, and she almost wished Mr. Whitmore had caught her up and tossed her in the carriage before embarking on this mission of mercy. Alas, it was too late now.
“Might I speak with your, er, wife, sir?”
The miscreant crossed dirty arms over his chest and took a step back, inclining his head.
Rose narrowed her own gaze on him and approached the girl. She didn’t want to touch the poor thing for fear of frightening her. Rose shot a glare over her shoulder at the two men, and the scoundrel took another step back. Mr. Whitmore, however, took a step closer. “Stop right there, Mr. Whitmore. I wish to speak to her alone.”
He did as she instructed, but his fists clenched at his sides as if he had to restrain himself from strangling her. Her neck tingled.
Rose turned to the young woman. “Will you walk with me, miss?”
Her widened eyes shot to the man who was or was not her husband—Rose had her doubts—and pulled her shoulders back. “Aye, ma’am.”
Rose led her a few steps away. She wasn’t that much of a fool, considering the neighborhood. Now that a little of the excitement had waned, the unpleasant fragrance of the Thames penetrated her nostrils. But as tempting as it was to pull out her orange-scented handkerchief, she resisted and turned to the girl.
“What is your name, dear?”
“Inez Macy, ma’am.” She fumbled a shallow curtsy.
“Is the gentleman your husband, Miss Macy?”
