Emerson grunted and rolled his eyes, but otherwise remained silent.
Ben laughed outright, delighted. “I quite like her, Emerson.” He turned back to Rose. “I’m five and twenty, my lady. Plenty old enough to take a bride.”
Laughter bubbled through Rose too. “Indeed, you are, sir,” she murmured, noting Emerson’s clenched fist on his knee.
“Are you in the market for a husband, then, my lady?”
She’d never been a flirt. Not like her youngest sister, but something irresistible came over her and she fluttered her lashes at him. “I certainly could be.”
“I’m charmed, Lady Stanford. Quite charmed.”
Emerson cleared his throat. A sound decisively agitated. “Perhaps you can enlighten us more on the Harlowes’ event, Lady Stanford.” There was an edge to his tone that had Rose sitting straighter.
He couldn’t possibly be…jealous. With the assistance of passing gaslights that flickered in from the cobbled streets, she studied him covertly. “Is something amiss, Mr. Whitmore?”
“Er, no, Lady Stanford. Please.” He turned his gaze out the window. To avoid his brother’s keen eyes? Her?
No matter. Harlowe’s was not far. This benefit washerdoing. The night belonged to her. “Of course. Well, I believe that this evening’s event should elicit a generosity of funds that will go toward Hope House.”
Ben grinned. “Oh, Emerson’s quite aware, my lady.” Even narrowed and turned on Emerson, Mr. Massey’s eyes lit with humor. “I’m pretty sure my brother will level a hefty draft for the cause. He’s likely speaking of the Harlowes themselves.”
A touch of naughtiness trickled through Rose in keeping with Mr. Massey’s obvious mischievousness. “Ah, yes, well, it’s a deliciously colorful story, Mr. Whitmore.”
“My favorite kind,” Mr. Massey said.
In a lowered conspiratorial tone, Rose embraced Gabriella’s dramatic flair. “Viscount Harlowe is Lady Kimpton’s brother. Some years back, Lord Harlowe disappeared, kidnapped and hidden, as the story goes, in an asylum near Colchester. Of course, many of the details were suppressed. But it was said he’d lost his memory for some time.”
“Good God.” Emerson turned his eyes from the windows and on her, shocked. Well. She had his attention now, didn’t she. “Who on earth kidnapped him?”
“The votes are still out on exactly whom, but it was either the late Lord Maudsley, now dead, or Lord Griston, who has since been committed to Bedlam.” She shuddered. “Neither one of which could be considered goodton.” Rose warmed to her topic with this new audience. “What’s truly interesting is the house in which the Harlowes reside.”
“More interesting than a kidnapped lord?” Emerson sounded skeptical.
She laughed and smoothed her gloved hands over her cloak. “It’s a complicated story, as I said, but years ago, Lord Maudsley had a baby and killed the mother of said child—his first wife. The child’s nursemaid overheard the entire exchange and ran away with the child. To keep them from starving, she, the, um, nursemaid…er, well, she was forced to take to the streets. In any event, she raised the child as her sister.”
“That’s quite a fantastic story, Lady Stanford,” Emerson said as if she were recounting a horrid fairy tale.
“Yes, well, there’s more. At some point, the nursemaid became quite the notorious courtesan.” The heat in Rose’s face grew infernal, but she’d started this tale. Besides, itwasdark. Perhaps they couldn’t see. “Years later, Harlowe married the stolen child. I forget her name, but she became enceinte and Harlowe was abducted before the birth of his baby. Sadly, the mother of said child perished before Harlowe was found and nursed back to health by his current wife, Maeve. They now live in the famous courtesan’s home in Cavendish Square. It was quite the scandal at the time…” she finished weakly.
“That was only a few years back, wasn’t it?” Ben said thoughtfully. “I remember. It was all over Eton, as Harlowe was sent there by Kimpton. Some years before me, but of course, the tale was still bandied about at that time.”
“I believe the Harlowes married in ’18.” Rose sighed. “I admit, I’ve found the story somewhat romantic.”
Emerson snorted. “Romantic?” He shook his head. “And Lady Harlowe doesn’t mind raising her husband’s child from that previous marriage?”
“To the contrary,” she retorted staunchly. “They’ve been adopting wayward children from the streets. It’s much more brave than I could do.”
“I have my sincere doubts on that score, Lady Stanford,” Emerson said, lips curling. “After all, you are doing a fine job in filling Hope House of late. Almost single-handedly.”
~~~
Emerson swallowed a curse and slipped his hand into the pocket of his greatcoat, fingering the dainty handkerchief he couldn’t seem to leave behind, thinking. It didn’t sound as if this Harlowe character was one to slip a blackmail note into someone’s pocket, but one could never be sure of another’s motivations. His lips compressed at the thought of the coming night…but he took refuge in the fact that he didn’t truly have to interact with the peerage. He could focus his attention on Rose and locating the nob’s office to absolve Emerson’s doubt that the viscount hadn’t sent the last note he’d received. His fingers tightened on his knee, recalling the most damning of the bastards words.
Your baroness makes quite the tempting prize, does she not? Keep her close…if you can.
He glanced at Rose where the low amber light made her skin glow. How was he to keep her safe? How?
By staying at her side. It was the only choice left to him. The possibility he could twirl her in his arms rippled through him. He hadn’t danced in years, but his fingers tingled at the thought of spinning her in a waltz before others.
