Ah, so the boy knew exactly who stood in the foyer. “Mr. Emerson Whitmore to see Lady Stanford,” Emerson said coolly, brushing past him.
The boy was no match for Emerson’s determination. Before Emerson could take the stairs and find his elusive little gem, Winston appeared, gliding down the curving staircase, carrying a silver tray that held a single missive, with all the solemnity of a man about to defend a drawbridge.
“Mr. Whitmore,” he intoned. “Lady Stanford is engaged and has left strict instructions she is not to be disturbed.”
“Is that so?” Emerson returned with a tight smile.
“Per my mistress’s instruction, I must insist you leave. I should deplore having to call the constable.” Winston was as stubborn as said mistress.
Emerson found his actions somewhat reassuring. After a long moment, he inclined his head. “Of course. If I may leave my card?”
Winston hesitated, then said, “Very well.”
Emerson pulled one from his pocket, all the while keeping a covert eye on the missive.
Winston turned toward the side table and set the tray aside.
The handwriting, definitely feminine, pierced him with a shot of lust. Until he caught sight of its intended destination…
Hawking & Berridge, Gough Square.
His jaw tightened.The Hallandale solicitors.He schooled his features then handed over his card—staid cream cardstock with his name, his company’s name, and location of his warehouse. These new ones also held his Mayfair location of Manchester Square.
“I shall ensure Lady Stanford receives your card at first opportunity.”
Which meant…he might. Emerson offered a cordial nod and turned to leave.
Inside, something cold had taken root.
Rose was writing to the solicitors. His and Benjamin’s solicitors.
Blast it, she was trying to find Hallandale. Of course, he’d predicted such.
But as the door closed behind him and the drizzle dampened his face again, his calm evaporated. He stepped briskly down the steps, down the walk, and through the wisteria arched gate, crossing to his waiting horse.
Hawking’s offices in Gough Square,” Emerson bit out to himself. “How resourceful of you, my lady.”
Gough Square wasn’t far. Hawking & Berridge wasn’t the sort of place that opened letters lightly upon request. But Emersonhad the upper hand—hewas the one who not only paid their wages, he did so in a timely manner.
He tapped the horse’s flanks, hard this time. “Faster.”
Minutes later, Emerson secured a boy to watch his mount, then entered the narrow, high-ceilinged chamber tucked into the east wing of the Gough Square administrative building. The place would be perpetually dim no matter the hour. With a sharp nod to the clerk sitting between two closed doors behind him, Emerson strode to Hawking’s, tapped once, ignoring the clerk’s sharp gasp, then opened the door to walls lined with shelves crammed full of ledgers, receipts, correspondence, and small locked boxes, each meticulously labeled in Hawking’s sharp hand. A single tall window admitted light through gauzy muslin curtains, yellowed with age.
His desk—a scarred mahogany monstrosity—dominated the room. It bore the weight of order: no loose papers, no inkwells tipped askew, no quills left to wander. A leather blotter, precisely aligned, marked the center, flanked by a set of brass scales and a locking cash drawer embedded in the wood.
A clock ticked somberly from a mantelpiece, and the only ornament was a faded silhouette portrait of a woman—his mother, perhaps, or a wife long gone—tucked discreetly behind the ledgers. The room smelled of pipe smoke, sealing wax, and old paper—the scent of bureaucracy.
Hawking, a wiry man in his late fifties with thinning gray hair swept neatly back from a high brow, rose elegantly from his chair—nothing seemed to rattle the man. “Mr. Whitmore, I wasn’t aware we had an appointment.” His manner was precise, his clothing just shy of threadbare, and his shoes shined to an obsessive degree. His erect posture gave an appearance habitually braced against nonsense.
Emerson dispensed with the niceties, going straight to the point. “Lady Stanford is sending over a missive as we speak.”
Hawking’s narrow face was sharpened by years of discretion and flinty blue eyes that missed little.
“I, er, don’t wish her courier to catch sight of me—”
“You realize, of course, ethically I’m obligated to keep any information sent to me confidential.”
Yes, Emerson knew that. “Obviously,” he said, inclining his head. “But I’ve uncovered information that has me concerned she may have placed herself in imminent danger—”
