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Authors: Grace Callaway
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chaos.
No—the past is done. Look forward. Address the problem at hand.
His fists clenched. Yes, that was what he needed to do.
Fix the problem.
All he had to do was find her.
Chapter Seven
“Do you have a minute, Emma dear?” a husky female voice said.
At the escritoire, Emma looked up from her book as her sister-in-law entered the drawing room. As usual, Marianne exuded glamour. Caught up in an elegant twist, her silver-blond curls framed her flawless features, and her emerald promenade dress—which matched her vivid eyes—clung lovingly to her willowy figure.
“I have all the time in the world.” Emma tried not to sigh.
Why can’t Ambrose give my dream of being an investigator a chance?
The business with Strathaven, she thought darkly, hadn’t helped her cause. Ever since she’d reported the duke to the magistrates, her brother had become even more overprotective. The authorities had promised to keep her identity confidential, but aspects of her testimony had leaked nonetheless. Rumors that the duke had killed Lady Osgood were running rampant, and Ambrose had insisted that she stay at home until the business blew over.
Ever astute, Marianne said, “Ambrose wants what is best for you.”
“I know.” Now Emma felt disloyal on top of it all.
All morning, she’d been as restless as a gypsy. She knew she’d done the right thing where Strathaven was concerned, yet the thought of him made her feel on edge, filled her with a disquieting, buzzing energy. If only she could bury herself in tasks at the office—she needed something to do , a distraction. Out of desperation, she’d dug up her book of household remedies.
She waved to the open volume in front of her. “I was researching a salve for Mr. Pitt’s joints and the second footman’s back. I hope you don’t mind my using your desk—”
“Of course I don’t mind.” Marianne frowned. “As I’ve said before, my home is yours.”
Marianne had told her this many a time, yet Emma couldn’t quite squelch the discomfort of residing in another’s woman house. She supposed she’d grown too accustomed to running her own household. Back in Chudleigh Crest, the cottage had been her kingdom; she’d arranged things to her own design, had come and gone as she’d pleased.
“I wanted to catch you whilst we have a few moments’ privacy.” Marianne sat on the snowy chaise longue, her skirts fluttering gracefully around her. “The girls are with the dancing master, and Edward is still sleeping.”
Plopping herself on the adjacent settee, Emma said with sympathy, “Did he have another bad night?”
Edward, Marianne and Ambrose’s seven-year-old, had recently started having night terrors. During the episodes, the little lad was inconsolable and difficult to wake.
“Poor thing was beside himself. I stayed with him until dawn,” Marianne said ruefully.
“I remember when Polly suffered a similar bout of nightmares. The only thing that helped was a glass of warm milk and a biscuit.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Clearing her throat, Marianne said, “What I really wish to discuss with you, however, concerns the Duke of Strathaven. Ambrose told me everything last night. I do wish the two of you had consulted me before bringing the matter to the magistrates.”
Emma’s shoulders stiffened. Not because her brother had shared this information with Marianne—she knew he and his wife kept no secrets from one another—but because of the judgment she heard in her sister-in-law’s tone.
She lifted her chin. “All I did was report a crime that I witnessed.”
“I know you meant well, dearest. You always do. But this is London, and things are different here than in Chudleigh Crest.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Are you?” The hesitation was uncharacteristic of Marianne and put Emma on guard. “I can’t help but wonder if you acted too hastily. No, don’t look so put out, dearest—I mean no insult to you. Or to Ambrose, for that
No—the past is done. Look forward. Address the problem at hand.
His fists clenched. Yes, that was what he needed to do.
Fix the problem.
All he had to do was find her.
Chapter Seven
“Do you have a minute, Emma dear?” a husky female voice said.
At the escritoire, Emma looked up from her book as her sister-in-law entered the drawing room. As usual, Marianne exuded glamour. Caught up in an elegant twist, her silver-blond curls framed her flawless features, and her emerald promenade dress—which matched her vivid eyes—clung lovingly to her willowy figure.
“I have all the time in the world.” Emma tried not to sigh.
Why can’t Ambrose give my dream of being an investigator a chance?
The business with Strathaven, she thought darkly, hadn’t helped her cause. Ever since she’d reported the duke to the magistrates, her brother had become even more overprotective. The authorities had promised to keep her identity confidential, but aspects of her testimony had leaked nonetheless. Rumors that the duke had killed Lady Osgood were running rampant, and Ambrose had insisted that she stay at home until the business blew over.
Ever astute, Marianne said, “Ambrose wants what is best for you.”
“I know.” Now Emma felt disloyal on top of it all.
All morning, she’d been as restless as a gypsy. She knew she’d done the right thing where Strathaven was concerned, yet the thought of him made her feel on edge, filled her with a disquieting, buzzing energy. If only she could bury herself in tasks at the office—she needed something to do , a distraction. Out of desperation, she’d dug up her book of household remedies.
She waved to the open volume in front of her. “I was researching a salve for Mr. Pitt’s joints and the second footman’s back. I hope you don’t mind my using your desk—”
“Of course I don’t mind.” Marianne frowned. “As I’ve said before, my home is yours.”
Marianne had told her this many a time, yet Emma couldn’t quite squelch the discomfort of residing in another’s woman house. She supposed she’d grown too accustomed to running her own household. Back in Chudleigh Crest, the cottage had been her kingdom; she’d arranged things to her own design, had come and gone as she’d pleased.
“I wanted to catch you whilst we have a few moments’ privacy.” Marianne sat on the snowy chaise longue, her skirts fluttering gracefully around her. “The girls are with the dancing master, and Edward is still sleeping.”
Plopping herself on the adjacent settee, Emma said with sympathy, “Did he have another bad night?”
Edward, Marianne and Ambrose’s seven-year-old, had recently started having night terrors. During the episodes, the little lad was inconsolable and difficult to wake.
“Poor thing was beside himself. I stayed with him until dawn,” Marianne said ruefully.
“I remember when Polly suffered a similar bout of nightmares. The only thing that helped was a glass of warm milk and a biscuit.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Clearing her throat, Marianne said, “What I really wish to discuss with you, however, concerns the Duke of Strathaven. Ambrose told me everything last night. I do wish the two of you had consulted me before bringing the matter to the magistrates.”
Emma’s shoulders stiffened. Not because her brother had shared this information with Marianne—she knew he and his wife kept no secrets from one another—but because of the judgment she heard in her sister-in-law’s tone.
She lifted her chin. “All I did was report a crime that I witnessed.”
“I know you meant well, dearest. You always do. But this is London, and things are different here than in Chudleigh Crest.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Are you?” The hesitation was uncharacteristic of Marianne and put Emma on guard. “I can’t help but wonder if you acted too hastily. No, don’t look so put out, dearest—I mean no insult to you. Or to Ambrose, for that
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