“No. The three of them were acting cocky as ever. I had no desire to speak with any of them. Though…” He looked out the window. “He…they…kept watching me. Smiling as if they knew something I didn’t.” He turned back to Emerson, his expression quite fierce. “It’s imperative we locate Oscar, Emerson. I fear for his safety.”
Rose frowned. “Have you seen him, then? The viscount, I mean? You haven’t mentioned him since…” Her voice trailed away, her gaze darting to Ben.
“Since when?” Emerson eyed her with a glint of suspicion.
Irritation fluttered through her. “Since the, er, masquerade,” she blurted. “When you showed me the first note?”
His expression smoothed out, followed by a short grunt. “With all that has happened since that unfortunate night, I’d forgotten.”
The breath stopped in her throat. Her lungs hurt. But neither brother seemed to realize, no oxygen flowed in the carriage.
“Emerson believes if anything happens to our cousin,” Ben went on, “any hint of conjecture, the blame will fall on me as I’mnext in line for the title.” He spoke with concern, not calculation, his brows furrowed, his tone weighted with unease.
Her gaze moved between Emerson and Ben. The identical expressions creased with worry. This wasn’t about her, she realized, her hurt falling away. It wasn’t she who was unfortunate. It was the situation regarding their cousin. They wanted the viscount found, alive and hopefully well. She studied Mr. Massey. He was the one who would benefit, and greatly so if the new earl…
Her admiration for him—the both of them—blossomed in her chest.
“When did you last hear anything of your cousin?” she asked softly.
“When we went to Sussex,” Ben told her. “Our old butler, Sedgewick, at Hallandale Hall mentioned Oscar had business in London, but we’ve seen or heard nothing of him.”
Her pulse quickened as Antonia’s words returned—hushed worries of her husband investigating a fronted warehouse at the docks. What if the new earl were behind such dealings? The possibility blazed through her like a spark catching tinder. If Oscar Massey was entangled in schemes Tatton was looking into, then perhaps—perhaps—Emerson was not. “Could he have something to do with a company at the docks?” she asked.
The thought both steadied and unsettled her. It relieved her mind to imagine Emerson innocent of nefarious dealings.
“We have no idea,” Emerson said. He stared at her through the darkness. “A company at the docks? That seems a very specific question, my lady.”
Rose’s heart thumped hard, but she stared back.
Ben’s hands cupped his knees, his mouth tugging into a smile. “My, my, Emerson, you’ve chosen quite the betrothed. She’ll not let you off so easy.”
“What?” The word erupted from Rose in a near squeal.
Emerson speared Ben with a glare. She clapped a hand over her mouth. Would this night never end? “Betrothed?” he said, deadly quiet.
“Well, the two of you did disappear. And it was long enough to set tongues wagging after that waltz the two of you shared that nearly set the ballroom afire.”
“Any notion on the paragon who, er, elicited this information?” Rose said faintly.
His eyes glittered with mischief. “I believe I heard something of the fact from Lady Harlowe’s mother, Lady Ingleby.”
Both Rose and Emerson groaned at once.
“Excellent,” Ben drawled, grinning. “Then I take it the rumor has some basis.”
Rose squeezed her eyes shut, willing her dignity not to crumble into sawdust at her feet. Of all the gossips in theton, Lady Ingleby was notably the most notorious with her cohorts, Ladies Gorman and Lockhart. It was said that Lady Ingleby’s interference was the catapult that pushed Maeve into accepting Harlowe’s suit. Of course, it turned out to be a love match for the ages, however it started. “If we survive this evening without being paraded throughThe Morning Post,it will be a miracle,” she muttered.
Her hand was gently squeezed and let go. She opened her eyes, meeting Emerson’s. The compassion she saw there banded her chest in iron. She wasn’t sure what she saw in that intense gaze. But she was certain it was not impossibleorunfortunate. Andthatgave her…hope.
The carriage slowed, wheels crunching against the stones, indicating they’d turned onto Upper Brook Street. Minutes later, they pulled up to Stanford House, where gaslight spilled across the portico.
As Emerson’s coachman opened the door and handed her down, Winston’s voice carried through the night air. “Off with you, girl! This is no place for vagrants.”
“What the devil?” Rose dashed through the gate to the porch—and there, huddled against one of the columns in the shadows, Rose spotted a slight figure in a plain cloak.
The young woman lifted her chin, defiant, despite the shadows under her eyes. “I knocked,” she said. “But your butler refused to admit me.”
Rose stopped. “Viola?”
