Ben nodded and turned his gaze out the window. “How are you going to find the blackmailer?”
“I have a young lady assisting me. She has access to…” His voice trailed. He wasn’t certain of giving out that information.
“Ah, the lady’s maid from the masquerade.”
Emerson flinched.
“She was quite enticing as I recall. I saw her, you know.”
“You did?” He wasn’t certain how he felt about that either.
“It was wearing all that hair down in public.” Ben shook his head, his eyes unfocused with a kind of wonder that had Emerson snapping his teeth together. “Scandalous.” Ben cleared his throat. “I started to make my way toward her to speak to her. I didn’t recognize her, but I’m certain she’s someone of import.”
“Oh? What makes you say that?” Emerson asked dryly.
“The mask. Despite her maid’s costume—which clearly belonged to, if nothermaid, a maid—the mask twinkled with jewels. Small and real, I would wager, but most significant. I caught sight of her disappearing through a servants’ door. I started after her when I realized Shufflebottom was heralding straight for her.”
Emerson’s lips tightened.
“I intercepted him, of course. Gave her a chance to slip away.” He turned a sly look on Emerson. “You both reappeared and took to the dance floor. Who is she? And what has she to do with the Duke of Ryleigh?”
Thinking of Rose’s hair had Emerson clenching his fingers into a fist to ease their tingling. He managed to swallow his groan. He failed in recalling how sharp Ben’s observance rose to on occasion. Nor did he have any notion of how to convey his thanks without things turning so…personal. Without knowing,though, Ben had assisted in averting a near disaster. “Ah, hell,” he bit out.
“What?”
Emerson scrubbed a palm over his face. “I was supposed to meet her this morning.” He couldn’t believe it had slipped his mind. Thatshehad slipped his mind. In one way, it was a bit of a relief that he hadn’t completely lost his faculties. Well, there was nothing for it now. Of course, he’d be lucky if she awarded him a second look after this mishap. And that didn’t set well at all.
The carriage took a turn, and Emerson glanced outside and saw they were nearing their destination. They approached the fortress of the Hallandale manor house, a monstrosity of four levels and a wide-sweeping drive. Weeds sprouted haphazardly in what used to be an impressive lawn.
Now, Ben’s groan filled the carriage. “I vow, if Iamthe earl, this place shall be restored to its former glory.”
Amir took the vehicle past the main house to another road behind where the cottage in which Ben and Emerson had been raised. They rounded another corner, and Emerson’s breath caught.
The dwelling hunched at the edge of the Sussex fields like a forgotten memory, its once-sturdy frame sagging beneath years of wind and silence. Moss clung to the weathered stone walls, and the ivy that once gave it charm now strangled the shutters. No smoke curled from the single crooked chimney.
The carriage drew to a stop. Emerson followed Ben out to the graveled drive.
He couldn’t help noticing how they both approached the front door, now swollen due to rain and neglect, with trepidation. As if seeing the inside would change the men they’d grown into. He pushed on the door, where it groaned on rusted hinges. Dust lay thick on the table where their father once sketched planting rows by candlelight. The hearth was cold, but charred logs still piledin the grate as if someone meant to return but never had. He surveyed the spiderwebs veiling the low beams. Guilt punched Emerson in the chest.
Without a word, he followed Ben into the small parlor where once-white sheets, now tinged yellowed and deteriorating, covered the divan, chairs, and tables meant to protect them from dirt.
The house was quiet but for their footsteps. The stairs creaked from disuse, and Emerson peered into his old bedchamber. Faded linens covered the narrow bed he used to sleep in. He wasn’t certain his feet would not hang from the end.
Back downstairs, he found a rusted kettle sitting on the iron stove, as though their father might walk in at any moment, rub his beard, and set it to boil. But the house was empty now, haunted not by ghosts, but by the silent echo of chores done at dawn, of two boys wiping their muddy boots at the door, of a man’s voice calling them to supper. Time hadn’t been cruel—it had simply moved on. But standing in the hollow stillness, Emerson felt the ache of it settle in his bones. For all its wear and ruin, this place had shaped him and his brother. And it was still theirs, even if Ben decided to part with it.
He turned to Ben, who stood in the hall between the kitchen and the parlor looking forlorn. “I’ll buy it,” Emerson said.
Ben looked up. “No. I-I don’t wish to sell it after all. It belongs to both of us. Even if neither of us choose to live here ever again.”
A band of iron squeezed the breath from Emerson, leaving him with an inability to respond. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “A sound notion,” Emerson said.
Sixteen
What used to be a morning room in Hope House had been converted into another drawing room, though modest. Mrs. Kier did a fine job of filling it with the scent of lemon oil and paper—two things that brought Rose a measure of calm under the best of circumstances. Her insides twisted tighter than the drawstrings of a reticule. She stood before the small fireplace, the stack of books she’d bought at Hatchards organized on the table like little soldiers, each promising structure, rules, or escape.
She faced the young women seated in a semi-circle, teacups balanced carefully on knees, their expressions ranging from cautious curiosity to open suspicion.
Rose lifted the first volume.Moral Conduct for Young Women.“This is a fine place to begin,” she said, her tone clipped.
