“Newmarket’s Second October Meeting,” Ben said. “Stockton’s been tracking a stallion with winning bloodlines. Collier’s sunk a fortune into some unknown gelding—Swindler’s Luck or some equally damning name. Gorman is along for the ride, naturally. Always is when there’s coin involved and no consequences. Lampert’s gone too.” A huff of irritation erupted from him. “Idiots. The lot of them. I ought to have seen through those jackanapes from the start.”
The conversation was ridiculous. Emerson needed to make the trek to Amersham. Along with a good dose of sleep. “Well, ifthey went to Lewes, they’re sure to be disappointed. There’s no Autumn Cup. Not this time of year. Hell, the stewards barely run a card past the equinox. Anyone who knows horses would never bother.”
Ben twirled the stem of his glass and laughed. “Serves the bastards right—er, apologies, Emerson.” His face turned a particularly interesting shade of red.
That drew a quick smile from Emerson. “Never mind. I am a bastard. In the literal sense.” After a short pause, he went on. “You’re too smart for those asses. None of the four could spot a proper racehorse if it trampled their valet.” The fact they’d headed south niggled at him. “Do they attend races all over?”
“Sure. Said it was the ‘social thing to do.’ Hell, I used to attend with them.” Ben sipped the brandy. “But between you and me, they don’t care for turf or titles unless there’s something worth pocketing on the other side.”
Emerson stood and crossed to the window. The clouds hung low, and fat drops of rain began plopping against the panes.
“How opportune,” he muttered, not sure if he referred to the inconvenient rain or his elusive scullery maid.
Within an hour, Emerson sat in his chamber, boots discarded and shirt unbuttoned at the throat, staring into a low-burning fire. The quiet was welcome.
A soft knock on the door preceded Amir’s entrance.
Emerson straightened. “What did you learn?”
Amir leaned against the doorframe. “Your woman is visiting her sister. Mrs. Antonia Tatton—née Abernathy. Seven months along and currently nesting in a respectable house just outside Amersham proper.”
Emerson exhaled slowly, some of the tightness leaving his shoulders. “So not a mystery. Just family.”
“It would appear,” Amir confirmed.
Perhaps he’d time to rest then. For a moment. Only one.
Twenty-Two
The next morning arrived with a pale, stubborn light that leaked through the linen curtains and refused to let Rose sleep past dawn. She lay there, arms crossed behind her head, glaring at the ceiling as though it had personally conspired with Emerson Whitmore to invade her thoughts and sabotage her peace.
“Stupid man,” she muttered aloud, still aggravated she allowed him to steal any shed of tranquility she could garner.
But he had kissed her—kissedher—then disappeared as if she were nothing more than an idle whim or a commonstreetwalker.
A merchant. A trader. A man with ink under his nails and secrets beneath his tongue. What had she expected? Poetry?
She bolted up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, jaw set. “Enough,” she told herself.
It was time to remember who she was. Rose, Lady Stanford, widow of influence, mistress of conversation, possessor of many impeccable ballgowns, and a current patroness (along with a countess andduchess) of a household filled with extraordinary young women who depended on them—her—to keep her wits about her.
What she was not—refused to be—was the sort of woman who lost her composure over a man who likely thought proper cutlery was optional. No matter how attractive—
Her head dropped, eyes squeezed tight.
Inhaling deeply through her nose, she stood and crossed to the window. Fine! The man was attractive. So was the Marquis of Shufflebottom, and that fop certainly didn’t rule her life. Her thoughts. Her body.
A shiver skittered up her spine, and she touched her lips as if Mr. Whitmore’s very own brushed them.
She looked out at the countryside beyond, still damp from the night’s mist. The Chiltern Hills rose like the soft edges of Antonia’s painted scene that hung in her drawing room.
Lovely. Peaceful. Entirely unsuited to brooding.
Right. No more brooding.
She had come to Amersham to visit Antonia, yes, but also to remind herself of the Adventurous Rose…and that woman’s original purpose. She couldn’t believe she’d forgotten.
It was time to locate the Earl of Hallandale, the real heir, and set her cap forhim. She’d almost prefer he didn’t possess broad shoulders, white teeth, and firm lips.
