A knock sounded at the door, and Yates entered. Holding the dreaded tray with yet another missive.
“Don’t tell me,” Emerson growled.
“Apologies, sir.”
Emerson snatched it off the tray and broke the seal and read it aloud.
Mr. Whitmore,
You mistake silence for strength. It is not. Pray continue, if you dare. Your baroness makes quite the tempting prize, does she not? Keep her close…if you can.
The second note had been worse than the first. This third, however, was not merely a demand for blunt. The fool had the unmitigated gall to taunt.Him. The hand was the same jagged ink blot as the others.
Ben frowned. “That’s quite brazen, isn’t it?”
But Emerson saw things differently. The blood in his body surged. Medieval shield indeed. “This isn’t just a taunt,” he clarified with a grim smile. “It’s a cornered rat. The tables have turned, gentlemen.” And the culprit would regret it, he vowed.
At precisely nine o’clock, boots gleaming, cravat mangled in flawless order, black coat set precisely to his frame, Emerson ascended the steps to Stanford House. Anticipation reeled through him, a smile tugging at his mouth.
Winston admitted him where Rose awaited him in the entryway, more radiant than he had braced himself for. Without a word, she swept past him toward the waiting carriage with all the hauteur of a queen.
Inclining his head at the butler, Emerson turned and quickly followed her.
Thirty-Two
Rose waited with undue patience for the footman to open the carriage door. Emerson was immediately there to assist her inside.
Half in and half out, she froze until Emerson hit her bum, startling her forward. She mustered her dignity and took the seat across from a younger, brighter-eyed, curls-too-artfully-tumbled-for-accident man who, while he didn’t look precisely like Emerson, certainly shared the squared jaw and roman-esq nose. His grin was instant and, at once, disarming.
“Good evening, sir.” She spoke pleasantly, and before Emerson could bark out any of his usual brusque nonsense.
The stranger executed a mocking half bow from the seat opposite her. “Benjamin Massey, at your service, Lady Stanford. Though most people call me Ben, and some people”—he flicked a look at Emerson—“call me worse.”
Her gaze darted to Emerson.
“My, er, brother,” Emerson said, looking as though he’d rather hurl the younger man out the door. Preferably after the rig set in motion.
Ben’s grin widened.
Rose drew in a sharp breath as she caught the timbre of his voice, deep and edged with amusement. Recognition prickled her spine. “The masquer—” She clamped a gloved hand over her mouth.
The faint glow of the lamp illuminated more humor when he shot Emerson another look. “Ah, the Shufflebottom do. Emerson mentioned you.”
“Oh? How…nice.” Rose said, butterflies wreaking havoc.
Emerson’s jaw clenched. “Lady Stanford, I would advise not taking anything that emerges from this upstart’s mouth.”
Ben smirked. “Now, now. That’s no way to speak of one’s own blood. Even if he prefers to disown me in front of attractive women.”
Rose’s brows arched, though she was pleased beyond words. “Hmm. Attractive.”
Ben grinned outright, the charm about him a bright colorful aura. “Indubitably. I am in line for the Hallandale earldom, you know.”
“Ah. Oh, yes, Viscount Monclair, the missing earl,” she said softly.
“Yes. He hasn’t been seen in quite some time,” Ben said with sudden contriteness.
He was charming, and young. Sadly, too young for her. “How oldareyou?” she blurted out. A flash of heat flamed her face. Apparently, Adventurous Rose was blessed with blatant rudeness. She cleared her throat. “Um, my apologies, Mr. Massey. I’m not usually so forward.”
