“Don’t sell yourself short, Rose. As I understand it, you, too, saved a young woman. You gave her gloves from your own hands. Gabby overheard the girls talking. Do not count your actions less than they are.”
Shock pelted Rose like sleet against bare skin. She’d come to Buckinghamshire to escape the gnawing feeling that she was somehow fumbling everything. That she was nothing more than a baroness playing at usefulness. Yet here was another younger sister, eyes glinting with pride, as if Rose had done something…noble.
She swallowed hard, stunned by the emotions roiling through her. “I didn’t… I only gave her gloves, Antonia. It wasn’t—”
“It was everything, darling,” Antonia said, simply but sharply.
Rose looked away, blinking fast.
She hadn’t expected to feel so…seen. Not in a borrowed sitting room, not in a quiet country house, not after everything.
And certainly not after a man like Emerson Whitmore had kissed her, then vanished, sending her mind into such a spiral she could barely remember what she'd set out to do.
Her voice came low, almost hoarse. “What if I’m not strong enough for this?”
Antonia’s smile was quiet. “Then you lean. On Gabby, on Rebecca…on me, even Claire, until you are.” She grasped Rose’s hand and squeezed. “That’s what it means to do something real, Rose. It shakes loose everything that isn’t set in stone.”
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The fire snapped gently, and somewhere beyond the door, a floorboard creaked as the house settled around them.
Rose slipped her hand from her sister’s and dug through her reticule for her handkerchief. She dabbed at the unexpected tears and undignified running of her nose. “Isn’t this an odd time for Mr. Tatton to be called to London? So close to your arrival date?” She spoke into the lace hankie to hide her tears, using the change of topic.
Antonia’s nose wrinkled again. “Apparently, it was urgent. Something about ledgers not matching shipping manifests. A company near the docks of the Thames.” She waved a hand in the air. “You know how he gets when there’s a whiff of dishonesty. He won’t rest until he’s poured over every bloody balance sheet himself.”
Rose froze. “Near the docks?”
“Some warehouse or trading firm east of the Tower. I’m sure it involves the East India Company in some capacity. Don’t most of them?” Antonia gave a rueful smile. “Honestly, I stopped listening after the third mention of improper bookkeeping.”
And just like that, the warmth of the fire and the hum of domestic calm that should have welcomed Rose like a balm set her mind racing.
East of the Tower. A trading firm. The East India Company.
A small shiver slid down her spine, not from cold, but from a slowly dawning thread of unease that wound its way through her chest and lodged behind her ribs. Her thoughts leaped to Emerson. The docks. The warehouse. His casual mention of partnerships. Of profit margins. Of needing entry into peerage homes. But he said he was being blackmailed. She’dread the note.
Had he mentioned the East India Company?
Yes. He’d said…said—she thought hard, so much had happened—he’d said theyshared a mutually beneficial relationship.
Apparently, her sister hadn’t noticed the shift and was still talking. “In any event, Tatton says the books were altered by hand—probably by someone who thought themselves clever. My husband is confident he’ll uncover it, of course. He always does.” She smiled fondly, rubbing a hand over her protruding belly. “He has very little patience for dishonesty. Says it stains the page like ink spilled in water—once there, it always shows.”
Rose barely comprehended the rest of Antonia’s words.
Fraud. Ledgers. East India. Emerson.
The words tumbled one over another in her mind, clattering like loose coin in a shaken purse. It was likely nothing. Acoincidence. London held hundreds of trading firms, and there was no shortage of shady accounting. But even as she told herself as much, a tight, insistent voice whispered otherwise.
She had trusted him. Worse—shewantedto trust him.
“Rose?” Antonia’s voice snapped her back.
She looked up, smiling too quickly. “I’m just tired, darling. The journey, you know.”
Antonia gave her a long, searching glance, but didn’t press. “Rest, then. Tatton won’t be back until Friday, and the cook has promised scones tomorrow if I behave.”
Rose managed a faint laugh. “Then I shall be very good.”
Antonia struggled to her feet. “Come, I’ll show you to your room.”
At the top of the stairs next to the guest chamber, Rose paused.
