Amusement fleeted across Ben’s face. “Ah, the ransom would break the bank.”
A small rusty laugh erupted from Emerson, surprising himself. “Abominable,” he agreed.
Ben’s demeanor turned serious. “Any luck in finding him?”
“No. It’s a slow process.” Emerson sipped his brandy. “Perhaps you and I should make a visit to the Hallandale estate. We might learn something there.”
“All right.” Ben spoke slowly, almost hesitantly. “If you think we won’t kill one another.”
“That is not amusing,” Emerson said, without the typical animosity banding his chest. And, to his surprise, a touch of said amusement pulsed through him. “We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”
Fifteen
Rose stood outside Hatchards with her jaw set and spine stiff enough to crack. The gray October sky suited her mood to perfection. Her fury was unmatched. She could honestly say Stanford had never angered her so. She fumed, looking down at her gloved hands that shook violently. One might suppose she hadn’tcaredenough. If this was how it felt to—
Damn that Emerson Whitmore. After his dictatorial mandate of being prompt to drive her to his warehouse, his insisting on meeting her this morning only tonotappear was beyond infuriating. She burned—from anticipation, to embarrassment, to cold, stiff rage.
If that man thought he could steal a kiss, entice her into laying open her brother’s library to search, then vanish without so much as a by-your-leave, he had another thing coming.
Impatience scoured her, scraped over her skin like unsanded wood pellets. She didn’t care! The blasted footman was taking entirely too long to lower the steps. Scowling, she pounded on the ceiling of the carriage. A second later, the door swung open.
Dobbs leaned his closely cropped head of hair inside. “My lady?”
“What is taking so long?” she bit out. If she didn’t do something productive soon, she feared she’d combust.
Which had impelled this impromptu stop at Hatchards to purchase books. For the girls—since she’d yet to set up these “safeguarding” lessons that had been discussed the night before. While she’d dashed off a note to Lady Brockway to call on Rose regarding the matter, Rose needed something, anything to distract herandto remind herself she had a purpose beyond somedictatorialmerchantwho smelled of leather and spice andlies.
Inside, the shop was hushed, the kind of place that expected quiet thoughts and well-bred restraint. Rose stormed in like a battle cry dressed in a day gown of soft green that flattered her coloring, and made directly for the improving literature.
Moral Conduct for Young Women.Perfect. She snatched the book from the shelf.
“A Lady’s Guide to Decorum.Yes,” she whispered. Necessary.
Her arms filled quickly with tomes that would make even her stodgy brother raise a brow. Her eye caught on a slim collection of poetry—something about longing and dust. She added that to her stack as well in a fit of rebellion, followed byGulliver’s Travels, because adventure was important too, wasn’t it? Of course it was.Adventurous, she reminded herself, which she currently claimed as her middle name. She marched to the cash counter but caught sight of herself in a mirror tucked behind the desk that a gentleman was manning.
Flushed cheeks? Determined brow? Perhaps—and she didn’t hate this thought—a smudge of indignation resided just below her left nostril. Minutes later, Dobbs was right there to take her package and assist her into her carriage and drive her to Hope House, where she was determined to help the young women with a strong sense of righteousness.
Rose entered the sitting room with her arms full and pride firmly laced into her corset, prepared to share her knowledge. The comfortably shabby parlor was devoid of anyone in need of her particular skillset.
Gabriella was seated before the fire with a stack of papers on her lap and a cup of tea in her hand.
Rose frowned.
Her sister glanced up. “Oh, good. You’re here.” She shifted the pile of papers to the table and patted the seat next to her. “Come, sit.”
Rose stopped, immediately suspicious. “What is it?”
“The bolts have arrived! Oh, Rose. They’re beautiful. And so many.” Gabriella was nearly salivating like the dog sitting on her other side who raised her head.
“Good morning, Lady MacBeth,” she said, taking the moment to think. “Bolts?”
“From Whitmore’s. Half a dozen in rich wool. And silks.” Gabriella lowered her voice in a conspiratorial whisper. “The silks are deliciously scandalous.”
A slight pause ensued.
Rose’s fingers tightened on her packages. Her carefully cultivated outrage slipped, just a little. She’d nearly forgotten his promise to send them.
So. Hehadcome through.
