“Good God. What the devil is in—ah, the masquerade lady…” he said, nodding.
Scowling, Emerson doused his face with cold water, snatched up a towel and swiped it over his face, then tossed the towel aside. “The carriage, if you please.”
Amir entered without so much as a tap at the door. “I heard voices.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?” Emerson demanded.
“Because the lady has returned home,” Amir responded so calmly Emerson’s teeth hurt from gnashing them.
“Never mind the carriage,” he told Ben. “I’ll take a horse.”
Twenty-Three
Rose entered the entryway of Stanford House, her gloves still damp from the carriage ride, her mind sharp with purpose. She’d spent the journey from Amersham drafting a note in her head—one she intended to send to Hallandale’s solicitor before the day was out.
Discarding her coat, gloves, and bonnet—in that order—she handed them off to Winston without looking up.
“Tea, please, and a quick repast. I’m famished. I’m behind on my correspondence, and shall be in the library. You may have the tray brought there—”
“Lady Stanford,” Winston interrupted. His voice carried that ever-so-slight haughtiness that set her teeth on edge. It took her back to the early days of her disastrous marriage. It could also mean he’d been holding back something important.
She blinked at him, seeing the paper in his hand. “What is it?”
“It’s Mr. Whitmore, my lady.He’s been, er, persistent.”
“Persistent?”Her heart stuttered, but she drew on her ducal upbringing and raised her brows, taking the missive. Ha! “I’ve no wish to see him, Winston.”
He let out a sigh. “He’s called three times, my lady. Once to leave a letter. Twice to inquire if you’d returned. As I said, most insistent.”
“Ridiculous. I’ve been gone but one night.”
“Yes, Lady Stanford. I received your note late yesterday.”
Rose broke the seal and unfolded the missive of fine vellum, glancing at the strong, sharp, neat hand. She didn’t need to read the whole thing to gather the meaning’s entirety. Emerson Whitmore had made himself clear enough the last time they’d spoken—commanding her to meet him, then vanishing without explanation. She crumpled the note in her fist and addressedWinston. “Should Mr. Whitmore return, inform him I am not receiving callers.” She swept toward the stairs. “Now, luncheon, if you please.”
Upon entering her bedchamber, she tossed his note in the fire, taking some satisfaction in the deed. Jane was retrieving an attractive day dress of cream and green stripes with gold thread. Rose kicked off her shoes and wriggled her toes. How tempting to discard her stockings and go about barefoot. But that would likely send Winston into an apoplectic fit, and one dead body in the last year was more than enough for her. A delicate shutter rippled over her.
Jane slipped the dress over her head, then fussed with her hair. “This is such a flattering color for you, my lady.”
“Thank you, Jane. I believe the Peachornsby fete is tonight.”
“Ah, yes. ’Tis a shame you haven’t time to do something with the bronze silk, my lady.”
Rose didn’t even want to think about that blasted bolt. “I’ll wear the navy velvet this evening.” It was close enough to mourning colors without flaunting her well-deserved, if sadly enforced, independence in any of the matrons’ pinched faces.
“Yes, my lady.”
After checking her appearance in the mirror, and with just the slightest regrets that she’d given up on Mr. Whitmore, she snatched up her shawl, lifted her chin, and descended to the library. Despite Winston’s thinly veiled disapproval of her, he was most prompt. Her lunch, complete with steaming tea, awaited her on the desk. She poured a cup and nibbled on a small meat pie after taking the chair behind the desk.
With a deep breath, Rose opened the inkwell and retrieved a couple of clean sheets of vellum to begin the lengthy process of drafting her letter to Hallandale’s solicitors regarding their mysterious client.
She dipped her pen, and hesitated.
To whom it may concern…
No, too impersonal.
Dear Sir,
