“Good evening, Maeve, Lady Brockway.” Rose smiled.
“Don’t you think it’s time you called me Ginny, Lady Stanford?” A conspiratorial glint lit her eyes.
Warmth blossomed through Rose. “Absolutely, Ginny. And you must call me Rose.” She turned to the mirror, certain her appearance had fallen into disrepair, matching her chaotic insides. But no. Her hair remained what it was—a riot of perfectly placed curls.
“What a lovely gown, Rose. I think even I could pull off that shade,” Maeve said, grinning. Her ginger-colored hair and myriad freckles were fetching. Mostly, Rose believed, due to her engaging personality.
“I thought it wise not to keep flaunting my recent widowhood.” Her nose wrinkled. “I mean, in my refusal to remain home, the matrons literally twitter when I saunter by.”
Joint laughter ensued before Rose made her escape back to the ballroom to locate her sister, but both Gabriella and Rebecca were being twirled about the parquet floor by their husbands. She sent for her brother’s carriage and, while waiting, penned a quick note to Rebecca, claiming an aching head.
Taking the duke’s carriage to Whitefriars was out of the question, so she instructed him to her own home and opted to hail a hackney—she didn’t trust Winston to secrecy. Pulling her dark cloak tighter about her, she gave the driver a false address before rerouting mid-journey—on her own terms.
~~~
Emerson strolled—though the effort not to storm nearly flayed him—down the street to the corner of Peachornsby’s east wing, his breath fogging in the chilled night. The borrowed coat Ben had forced on him was stiff across his shoulders. Music drifted from the ballroom like the faint mist in the air.
He approached the servants’ entrance and found his brother pacing about like a madman fit for Bedlam, his face flushed, hair askew—quite un-Ben-like.
Ben caught sight of him and pulled up. “Thank God,” he breathed. “You’re late.”
Emerson ground his boots against the gravel, his chest tightening as if waiting for a blow. “What happened?”
Ben looked about before answering, lowering his voice. “She’s gone. Lady Stanford.”
Ice congealed Emerson’s blood. The kind of cold that had nothing to do with the weather.
“She left the ballroom. I followed until I realized she was headed to the ladies’ retiring room,” Ben went on. “I waited for her near the library. But she never emerged. By the time I strolled back to the ballroom, I saw her bound for the entryway. I fought my way through the crowd, but I was too late. She’d disappeared.”
“She didn’t speak to Her Grace or Lady Huntley?”
Ben raked a hand through his hair. “No. They were occupied on the dance floor. With theirhusbands!” He sounded so appalled that Emerson might have managed a laugh if worry wasn’t choking him so. “I fear you were right—she’s taking matters into her own hands.”
Emerson didn’t wait for more. He turned on his heel and ran back to the street, boots skidding slightly as he cut around the stone path and past the colonnade, where a line of carriages sat idle. His breath steamed in the cold, heart pounding a ruthless rhythm. It was a devil’s snarl of rigs and horses, harness bells sounding. A thousand directions and he couldn’t find one clear path to find her.
The crunch of wheels ground over the drive. Then he saw it…Ryleigh’s ducal carriage clearing the gates, rolling its way into the night. There was a faint flutter of a cloak as the rig turned thecorner—Rose, vanishing into the dark like a ghost he couldn’t grasp.
Damn her.
No, damnhim. He’d known she would attempt her own uprising. Telling her it was too dangerous had been like waving a red cape before her lovely green eyes.
Ben stumbled to a halt beside him, panting. “Where the devil do you suppose she’s gone?”
Emerson didn’t answer. He was already calculating. She’d taken the duke’s carriage—no, not all the way. She was too clever for that. If she’d overheard anything of value tonight, she would act on it. Alone. “Did she arrive with the duchess and Lady Huntley?”
“They entered together. By the time they arrived, the ballroom was stifling with people.”
“My guess,” Emerson said, thinking through his logic aloud, “is that she’ll have to send the carriage back for them. She’s going home.”
“Shall I accompany you?”
Emerson stopped, peering at his brother through the gloom. “Stay close to the upstarts. See if they say anything. I have to go after Lady Stanford.”
“All right.” Ben melted from sight, and Emerson dashed for the gates.
On foot.
God help whoever stood in her way.
