Goodness, how could she have forgotten? Oh, right. It was the pesky interference of an intimidating albeit wealthy merchant. Generous too. “Oh, er, yes. No, not yet.” She faced her sister andraised her voice. “I think it shan’t be too long. An unattached earl can only remain in hiding for so long.”
Gabriella laughed. “You shall prevail, dear sister. I have no doubt. Come along. You know how timely Sebastian prefers his dinner. He doesn’t do well on an empty stomach.”
“So true.” Rose latched the terrace doors carefully, making certain to flip the latch back so that it remained unlocked, then followed her sister from the room. As if Emerson would find anything incriminating in Sebastian’s possession. Her brother was as honest as he was staid and unbending.
Thirteen
Emerson forced the disturbing conversation between Rose and Lady Huntley from his mind. Any lack of concentration at this juncture could get him caught and transported. He opened the top drawer of a massive oak desk. It was highly organized with a few pens, quills, a stack of vellum, and a pair of reading spectacles. In another drawer he rifled through a few personal notes from social acquaintances and a family member from Dorchester that included a miniature of identical twins of an indeterminant age, though he could tell they were boys.
Below that, he found a map of the duke’s landholding labeled “Dorchester.” He thumbed quickly through more correspondence and stopped.
R—
The age of intended victims has raised. their purpose, however, remains the same. Time grows short.
Yrs, H
The paper was yellowed and crinkled. Old and…interesting.Left more questions and no answers. It appeared Lady Stanford didn’t know her brother half so well. Emerson committed the words to memory and placed the folded note back where he’d found it and slipped out the way he’d entered—the window.
The walk to Manchester Square took all of five minutes. He quietly let himself in the front door and strode straight for the drawing room and the brandy.
His mind jumbled with all the directions it needed to go but couldn’t decide on which to focus on first. Was there some connection to the women of Hope House? And what? The urge to read the worst into the missive he’d located was tempting and would also behoove him to remember the age and condition of the note, besides the fact the man was a bloody duke. One ofthe most, if not the most, powerful human in the whole of the United Kingdom and Ireland. The man’s own wife and sister had founded a shelter for underprivileged women and girls.
Emerson had a difficult time believing that the duchess and Lady Huntley were drawing these women in only to sell them for nefarious reasons. Rose certainly had nothing to do with such a scheme—even had he an inkling of something so vile, seeing her fiercely face off against Billy for Miss Macy would have nixed any doubt.
After the bit of information gleaned from Rose and her sister, he wanted to berate himself for being so angry with her. Because how on earth could he fault her for saving Miss Macy? The poor chit had been brutalized. All his anger with the impulsive Lady Stanford had fled after overhearing their discussion. The conversation had him even trying to come up with more ways to offer his assistance for the rampant abuse toward those young women at Hope House.
But in light of the note, doubts now flooded him. And who the devil was “H”? Someone at Hope House? Huntley? Ben signing his name as Hallandale?
Emerson paced to the window that overlooked Spanish Place to Hertford House, with all its windows lighting up the night sky, and groaned. The entire situation was a bloody mess. And none of it linked to who was attempting to extort money from Emerson regarding Ben, or alluded to what information they had for said money.
Emerson shoved a hand in his pocket, his fingers brushing against the touch of soft lace. He pulled out the handkerchief he’d intended to return to Lady Stanford, but it seemed to bring him luck and he pushed it back into his pocket. The very feel of it had an odd, calming effect on him. Acted as an elixir to his rising temper.
He’d find the bloody scoundrel trying to blackmail him and thrash him a good one. And he’d bloody well enjoy the task, he told himself, striding for the desk and whipping out a piece of paper. He dipped his quill in the inkwell.
My dearest Lady Stanford…
~~~
Rose sipped her wine, surveying the company around the table, though her attention remained split…meaning the other half was snagged by whatever was happening in her brother’s study.
The conversation was lively with Gabriella and Huntley, Sebastian and Rebecca, and talk of Antonia’s and Claire’s coming children, each due within the next month or two. Both sisters had remained home, but Claire’s husband, Beaumont, had kindly accompanied Rose. The rest of the party included Lord and Lady Harlowe, the Kimptons, the Brockways, and the Prime Minister, Lord Liverpool. An odd addition, and since his late wife’s passing was but the prior month, he wore a black armband.
Certainly Rose had no call to criticize, considering her own blackguard of a husband had only been gone three months and she was in the throes of turning her nose up at society’s strict mourning rules for women.
“It’s confirmed. Hallandale has expired, and his heir hasn’t been seen in years. There’s an ongoing inquiry as to his whereabouts.” Liverpool spoke as if ice ran through his veins instead of blood. “Studious man as I recall.”
Lord Kimpton frowned. “Is there word on who the next in line is?”
Rose set her wine down and picked up her spoon, then set it down lest she dropped it from her shaking fingers. That familiar tingle started at her skull and covered her whole head. Her stomach rippled from the inside out as if a gaggle of honking geese ran wild within.
Liverpool went on. “Hallandale had a cousin who died a few years back. Name of Jaxton Massey. Has a couple of sons as I recall.” He lifted one shoulder. “The older one is a bastard, I believe. Ineligible for the title. The younger one, however…” His words trailed away, and Rose thought she might faint then and there.
A silent message passed between Sebastian and Rebecca. Irritation fleeted Rebecca’s expression but quickly dissipated as she rose from the table. “Ladies, shall we adjourn to the drawing room? I have sherry and madeira if anyone is interested.” She shot Sebastian a look. “Other spirits too.” The parting shot acted as an exclamation point.
Sebastian’s expression grew more stoic, if that was even possible, and Rose stifled a quick grin. Rebecca considered herself Sebastian’s equal, to his ever constant grief. Outside of anything formal, however, it was clear how much Sebastian doted on her. The success of Hope House was absolute proof.
Rose followed the other ladies from the dining hall, but she quickly darted up the stairs to her old chamber for a much-needed respite from the tedious dinner. Liverpool had always unnerved her. His late wife had been a paragon but sickly. Her charitable works were legendary.
