Sadly, it appeared she couldn’t even attract a simple merchant.
Nineteen
London traffic was bustling once they entered the city proper at well past noon, but after dropping Ben at Manchester Square, Emerson headed directly for Lady Stanford’s. His coat was wrinkled, his boots dusty, and his temper stretched thin. Ben hadn’t stopped talking for ten minutes straight the entire journey from Sussex—proof that Emerson was right to avoid his company. Acknowledging the shift between them was something Emerson refused to dwell on.
Rose.Rosewas the priority at hand. He had to find Rose.
Upon reaching Upper Brook Street, he didn’t even wait for Amir to stop the coach properly. The carriage wheels ground to a halt outside Stanford House, and Emerson was out the door and up the walk, pounding the knocker hard enough to startle a flock of pigeons from the neighboring roofline.
Lady Stanford’s butler opened the door with composed efficiency, which only deepened Emerson’s frustration.
“I must speak with Lady Stanford. Immediately.” His voice was more gravelly than usual due to the lack of sleep, Ben’s unending chatter, worry over an unknown blackmailer, Oscar’s whereabouts, and Rose’s safety.
Winston blinked, then ran a critical eye over Emerson that started with the scruff on his face to the dust on his boots, then back up. “Her ladyship is out.”
Emerson drew in a harsh breath. “Where the devil is she?”
“I beg your pardon, sir? Perhaps you would care to leave your card and I’ll relay it to her once she returns.”
Hell. Now he’d gone and offended the man’s sensibilities, as if his attire hadn’t already accomplished that feat. “I’ll wait.”
The man stiffened. “I don’t expect her ladyship to return before dinner.”
“I suppose she’s at Hope House?”
The butler’s lips firmed. “She failed to leave a schedule, sir.” The frost in his tone startled Emerson, and he narrowed his eyes on the man. He didn’t approve of her independence…? After a long moment, the butler said with obvious reluctance, “This morning, not long after breakfast, the lady did mention her destination as Hope House for the day. Said it was a matter of fabric and”—he hesitated, as if sorting through a list of unorthodox excuses—“‘fitting etiquette into chaos,’ I believe were her words.”
“Fabric?” Hm. Emerson shook his head. “Never mind. Did she go alone?”
“She took a footman, of course, and her maid,” he said in a dignified huff.
“Thank God for that at least.” Emerson pushed a hand through his hair and studied the layout of the street. It was quiet, established, well-kept.
“And a stack of books,” her butler added, drawing back his attention.
He wouldnotgrin. “Books?”
“Quite a few. I expect anyone who interrupts her is likely to regret it.”
“Thank you for the information.” Emerson turned on his heel and started down the shallow steps.
“Shall I mention your visit, Mr. Whitmore?” Winston called.
“That won’t be necessary.” Emerson looked back, jaw tight. “She won’t need the message. I’ll find her myself.”
The door slammed behind him.
He stalked to his conveyance. “Hope House,” he told Amir.
Amir returned, his gaze roving Emerson’s attire down to his boots, “Are you sure that’s wise?”
Emerson glanced down. Gads, he couldn’t show up at Hope House looking like a beggar. This sudden need to check on her safety surprised him. Irritated him too.
Certainly, he was concerned. Hadn’t she confronted Billy Buster with no thought to her own well-being? No, his concern was justified.
He didn’t care to be blamed for any nefarious ending!
The thought sent a sharp prick through his chest. “Hope House first,” he bit out.
