His words were cut short by the clerk’s knock.
“That will be the courier,” Emerson said softly. He moved to a shadowed corner and looked out the window, hands clasped loosely at his back, watching the fog settle into the square, confident Hawking would take his words to heart.
The door creaked open.
The clerk’s eyes flicked to Emerson then back to Hawking. “Sir, a courier to see you. He’s been instructed to hand you the post personally.”
“I’ll be there directly,” Hawking said.
Nodding, the clerk closed the door, latching it softly.
Hawking pierced Emerson with another sharp look, then stepped into the outer portion of the office.
Emerson could only discern the low murmurings, but failed to make out the words. Seconds later, Hawking returned with the damning missive in his bony, ink-stained fingers.
Hawking broke the seal and skimmed the text. His head rose, and the crease between his brows was deep. “You say Lady Stanford penned this missive?”
“Of course,” Emerson snapped. “I just left her residence.”
“This missive is penned by a Lady Marchwood.”
“Who the hell is Lady Marchwood?”
“An excellent question,” Hawking said with a slightly curled lip. “But she appears to be a cousin of your family.”
“Nonsense.” But Emerson paused. “How can we verify if there is an actual Marchwood?”
The solicitor refolded the missive and slipped it in his pocket. It was quite insulting. But Emerson was forced to let it go.
“I shall do some checking into the matter. If I find that there is no such person, I shall share the contents at that time.”
Emerson let out a sharp, dry snort. “Be sure to verify that seal. I think you’ll find it belongs to the late Baron Stanford.”
Hawking inclined his head. “Noted. Should I expect more correspondence?”
Emerson strode to the door, frustration pulsing through him, but paused. “If she decides to pursue this nonsense further, yes. For now, I shall set her straight on the matter.”
With that, he stormed from the office to the square. He took possession of his horse from across the cobblestones. It was just his luck the heavens had decided to christen him with a deluge.
Twenty-Four
Rose took her tea and moved from the desk to the settee and stared into the well-laid fire. She half expected Emerson to return and storm his way into her private sanctum.
The door flew back, and Rose gasped. “What—” Her hand flew to her chest. “Oh! Gabriella, it’s you. Hello, Rebecca. What on earth brings the two of you by?”
“Mr. Whitmore has been trying to find you.” Gabriella grinned.
“Oh?” Rose took a sip of her tea, a little pleased at this revelation. She waved out her hand, indicating they sit and partake.
“I would call him smitten. How is Antonia?” Gabriella plopped down in a matching chair, while Rebecca lowered gracefully onto the settee.
Rose ignored the “smitten” remark, which was certainlynotthe case. “As large as that house she resides in. She insists she is up to the task of hosting the young women for their special outing.”
“Is she?” Rebecca asked.
“Yes. She is quite excited about it. Her husband is currently in London.” Rose frowned. “I don’t like her being in Amersham alone.”
“She has a house full of servants. She’s hardly alone,” Gabriella returned.
