Emerson’s gaze flicked between the stairs where Rose had disappeared and the shadowed passage where Collier lingered. Both paths reeked of trouble. For a moment, his muscles tightened with indecision. Follow Rose and risk losing sight of Collier, or track Collier and pray she was where Ben predicted?
With a soft curse under his breath, he angled toward the passage after the young baron.
The air cooled as he left the press of dancers and laughter. Carpets muted his boots. He kept far enough back to avoid notice, watching Collier’s easy saunter down the corridor. Emerson’s blood ran hot, waiting for some sign—some flicker—that the man meant harm.
But at the end of the hall, Collier merely veered through the arch into the card room. The low murmur of wagers rose, mingling with the shuffle of cards and the clink of coin. Nothing more.
Emerson stopped. He’d left Rose unwatched for a damned hand of faro.
Disappointment burned as sharply as the prickle still needling him between the shoulders. He turned back toward the staircase, grimly aware he’d chosen the wrong quarry.
He’d barely set his boot upon the first step when a sweep of silk ascended toward him—two figures arm in arm, their laughter soft and knowing.
“Mr. Whitmore, isn’t it?” the flaxen-haired one said. “I’m Lady Kimpton.”
She was resplendent in cerulean satin that had likely come from his own warehouse since he supplied a good portion of London’s modistes. Her steps paused with the serene authorityof a general on the field. At her side was the unusual and quite interesting Lady Brockway.
“Mr. Whitmore,” Lady Brockway said, inclining her head. “How lovely to see you, again. I hope your foot is quite recovered from my younger daughter’s abuse.”
A chuckle rippled through him. “Indeed, Lady Brockway. But it was a near thing. You will let her know?”
She laughed, a shockingly braying sound. “She will be more than pleased—of the ‘near thing,’ I regret to say.”
Lady Kimpton eyed him as though he were a wayward schoolboy loitering where he had no business. Which, of course, was true.
“Do you require the ladies’ retreat, sir?” Lady Kimpton inquired, her tone sweet as treacle and just as cloying. “Surely you are not in want of powder or pins.”
“Er.” Heat surged up the back of his neck. He bowed with forced ease, though his ears burned. “I was—”
“Lost?” Lady Brockway supplied, her brandy-colored eyes glinting with amusement.
“Merely in need of a breath of cooler air,” he managed smoothly. “The lower floor was calling me.”
Lady Kimpton’s smile sharpened. “Yes, I imagine it might—after such a…waltz. Why, I daresay the very walls blushed on your behalf.”
“You caught me out, my lady. I’m in search of my elusive dance partner. My…betrothed,” he heard himself adding, astonished that lightning didn’t blaze through the ceiling and strike him where he stood.
“Yourbetrothed?” The words burst from Lady Brockway. “Neither of you mentioned a thing the other day.”
“She only just accepted my suit…last night…”
An awkward silence cut between them before Lady Kimpton inhaled deeply then let it out. “Well, I suppose that explains whyhalf the room could scarcely draw a breath for watching you and Lady Stanford.”
Rose would kill him.
The sound of bronze skirts—yes! He could hear the bronze, rustling just behind—
Ladies Kimpton and Brockway leaned to the side in unison where Rose’s steps slowed. Emerson slowly lifted his eyes, facing Rose.
“Ah, Lady Stanford. We hear felicitations are in order,” Lady Brockway said.
The words landed like a gauntlet. Rose lifted her brows. He barely contained a flinch, and to cover, lifted his eyes to the ceiling. No reprieve there.
“Indeed.”
Too late now for half measures. “I just imparted the news of our recent engagement, darling.”
The only physical reaction he discerned was the tightening of the satin stretching across her knuckles with her grip on the banister. “I thought we’d agreed to keep the news to ourselves,darling.”
