“If you’re reading this, I’ve failed to stop them. I was warned—more than once. They mean to use the title to legitimize their work. The scheme runs beneath London like rot beneath floorboards. I’ve traced it to one house, but due to the occupant, it makes no sense. It’s the great white townhouse on Russell Square. The girl, Florence, was only one of many.” Ben looked up sharply. “I don’t understand. Russell Square. That’s Stockton’s family home. Or very nearby.”
Emerson took the paper and read on. “I saw her once in the corridor at King’s Theatre. She recognized me. Begged for help. I tried, but I was too late. And now I fear I’m next. The truth lies with the men who funded the marquis’s masquerade. Follow the money.Oscar.”
Emerson’s breath left him in a single, ragged gust.
“I was right,” Ben said quietly, his eyes fixed on the page Emerson still held. “He didn’t flee.”
“No,” Emerson replied. “He was taken. Likely the same night Miss Groves was killed.”
“But it was Lady Bentick who killed Miss Groves.”
Emerson refolded it and slipped it into his breast pocket.
Ben eyed him. “What now?”
Emerson extinguished the candle. “I must return to London.”
Ben’s eyes narrowed. “You meanwemust return.”
“Perhaps you could remain here. Get the manor in order and do what you can to locate Oscar’s whereabouts.”
“Or I could return to London with you.” Ben straightened. “Good God, you think they’re still moving girls.”
“I think they’ve never stopped.” Emerson’s voice was low, deadly. “And I think the late baron’s wife, Lady Stanford, may be far too close to all of it.” He’d clearly placed her in peril in obtaining her assistance to find his blackmailer.
Ben’s brows rose. “The widow? Look, Emerson, it’s too dangerous to take the horses in the dark.”
Emerson didn’t answer.
“And people believe you the smart one?” Ben let out a sigh. “I’m coming with you, as clearly your wits have deserted you.”
Eighteen
The next morning, Rose descended the stairs to find Winston waiting in the entryway, holding a parcel wrapped in brown paper, secured with twine. “A delivery, my lady.”
“Oh, thank you, Winston. I don’t recall ordering anything,” she said, frowning. “What is it?”
“I’ve no notion, my lady. There is a note as well. From Whitmore’s Wholesale Ware—”
She cut him off. “Whitmore’s…” Shock reeled through her.
“The merchant, ma’am. His man brought it personally. Very polite. Wouldn’t wait.”
Her stomach twisted, but she did her best to remain composed. “Take it to the drawing room, Winston.”
Once Winston withdrew, Rose took up the note on cheap foolscap. The wax seal cracked beneath her thumbnail.
Whitmore’s Wholesale Warehouse
Ratcliff Cross, London
Lady Stanford—
One bolt stood apart. Not for its extravagance, but for how very precisely it recalled a certain gleam of hair beneath an improbable frilly hat.
You spoke of boldness, of beginnings, of choosing something no one would expect. I believe this may suit. Not because it blends in—but because of the very fact of its refusal to do so.
Use it as you like. Or not at all. It is yours with my compliments.
