Page 30 of The Accidental Countess (Accidentally in Love #1)

“M y lady, the marquess is abed,“ Phillips argued. “He is not receiving calls at this hour of the morning.”

“I must see him. This is a matter of utmost importance.”

“You already know Lord Rothburne has forbidden you to enter his house.”

It was clear to Emily how a person could be moved to murder someone. At the moment, she had the urge to hang the footman by his starched cravat.

“This is not a social call,” she said firmly, trying to push her way past. “This is about his son. Lord Whitmore will die if you don’t let me see the marquess.”

Phillips shook his head. “If you do not remove yourself from this house, I shall summon the constable.”

Before he could slam the door, the marquess appeared behind him. “Come to wreak more destruction upon the household, have you?”

Emily ignored his dry question. “Stephen is in danger. He’s gone after my niece and nephew.” Quickly, she explained the situation and waited for Lord Rothburne to respond.

“You spin a fine tale. But then, women such as yourself are good liars, so I hear.”

Emily closed her eyes. “You and I will never be allies, I know. But that is of little consequence. He’s gone alone, and I am not about to let him die.” She leveled a hard stare at him. “If you do not wish to lose another son, then I’d suggest you help me.”

The marquess said nothing but turned his back on her. Phillips closed the front door, and Emily sagged against the frame, exhaustion aching from every pore. She had hoped that somehow Lord Rothburne would believe her, that he would help his son.

How had she thought she could mend the breach between them? Such a foolish notion. The marquess cared about nothing, save duty.

The door opened slowly, and she looked into the face of Stephen’s younger brother Quentin. “I’ll go,” he offered. With a rueful grin he added, “Eavesdropping. Sorry, I couldn’t resist.”

In Quentin’s face she saw an earnest desire to help. And yet, she grew wary. “You invested money in The Lady Valiant , too,“ she said, remembering the column of figures Stephen had deciphered.

A sheepish grin crossed Quentin’s face. “Unfortunately, I did. Lost every penny.”

“And did you know my uncle was an investor?”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

“Uncle Nigel stole the cargo profits from The Lady Valiant . I’m sure of it. Now he’s gone, and so are my niece and nephew.”

“I am sorry to hear it. But I would be glad to help.”

Though she didn’t want to coerce Quentin into danger, she desperately needed his assistance. “Stephen went after them to Nigel’s country estate…” Her voice faltered, but she hid her fear. “I know Nigel won’t release the children. And I am afraid he is the one who tried to have Stephen killed.” And me , she almost added.

“How long ago was it?”

“His servant Anant kidnapped the children hours ago. We’ll never catch up.”

Quentin’s gaze shifted as though he were turning over an idea in his mind. “There might be a way.” Before he could elaborate, the door opened again.

“Wait.” Lord Rothburne emerged. He wore a black cape, his silvery hair glinting against the darkness. In his hands, he held a set of pistols. “We’ll need these.”

Emily did not know what had changed his mind, but for the first time she saw a crack in his unyielding demeanor. It offered a small measure of hope. “Thank you.”

A grim frown settled across his countenance. “I will go on one condition,” he said to her.

“Name it.”

“After Quentin and I bring him back, you will retire to the countryside. Do not show your face in London again.”

Emily raised her chin to meet his arrogant gaze. “No.”

When his expression turned baffled, she added, “I am married to your son, and I will not leave him just to satisfy your overblown beliefs of what a lady should be.” She cleared her throat and folded her arms across her chest. “I am also coming with you.”

The marquess looked as though he were about to explode. “You cannot think to possibly—“

Quentin put his hands up. “Now, now. Do not be foolish, Lady Whitmore. You will stay here and wait for us to return.”

She shook her head. “You are the foolish ones. You forget that I lived with Uncle Nigel for several weeks. I know his house better than you, and I can get inside without anyone knowing.”

“Stephen would have my head roasted on a platter if I allowed you to come,” Quentin argued.

“But he won’t know, will he?” To cap it off, Emily continued, “And if you leave me behind, I shall simply follow you. It is quite dangerous for a woman of my station to travel alone, even with a suitable companion.”

The marquess’s face transformed from crimson into purple. Emily moved forward and slipped her arm in his. With a firm pat upon his shoulder, she said, “Shall we?”

Quentin offered her his other arm, coughing hastily to hide what might have been a laugh.

It took over two days to reach Nigel’s estate. Stephen stopped only when nightfall made it impossible to go farther. As soon as enough light permeated the horizon, he continued on his journey. He’d switched horses twice, his mind focused on the task at hand. He wore a revolver at his side, a knife hidden inside his coat. Landscapes shifted into rolling meadows, sunsets merging until one day met the next.

Why had he not foreseen the danger? He blamed himself for what had happened. Emily’s devastation haunted him, her fingers curled around Victoria’s blanket.

He remembered, too, the laughing smile of the baby who had drooled all over his waistcoat. Even when Victoria had sobbed herself to sleep in his arms, he couldn’t forget what it had felt like to be a father.

And then there was Royce. The boy reminded him so much of himself—mischievous, eager to please, and yet shielding himself from hurt. Stephen had to succeed in bringing them home. Emily was relying on him.

The thought encouraged him to increase the horse’s gait. He envisaged Emily with her hands buried in bread dough, a smile meant for him. He wanted to make love to her until she cried out, arching her back and drawing him close. He wanted to wake up beside her.

He loved her. The knowledge filled him with an iron-clad resolution not to let her or their family down.

He drew his horse to a stop, the animal’s sides heaving. In the distance he saw Nigel’s country estate. Night descended over the landscape as he drew nearer, darkening the shadows until the glow of gaslights was all that illuminated the manor.

He could not go in alone; Nigel would kill him. He needed stealth, and at the moment, time was on his side. Nigel would not expect him for many days yet. No one else knew of his arrival.

If he moved too swiftly, he risked their lives. Stephen watched the house, turning over possible strategies in his mind. Without leverage against Nigel, the only means of rescuing the children was to overpower him.

He needed a diversion so he could move in for his own attack. It was critical to destroy Nigel’s command of the situation.

He knew just what to do.

Why was it that men always insisted on leaving a woman behind? After surviving a horrid journey by train, riddled with soot and traveling at speeds no human should have to endure, the marquess had ordered Emily to remain in the village.

Her patience had lasted little more than an hour. She needed to be there, to know what was happening. Already she had thought of a plan. She could stay hidden from the others and yet be inside the manor house.

After inquiring in the village over the course of the afternoon, she’d purchased clothing that would help her look like a servant. It hadn’t been difficult to disguise her appearance, for she looked positively dreadful since Lady Thistlewaite’s ball, days ago. Emily covered her hair in a mob cap, drawing it down low over her eyes. In her gray gown, no one would ever mistake her for a lady.

It took her most of the afternoon to walk to Nigel’s estate. As she’d expected, men guarded the entrance.

One blocked her path, a stout man armed with a pair of pistols. “And just where do you think you’re going?”

She kept her face down. “Beggin’ pardon, sir. Mrs. Graham asked me to come. I’m to be the new scullery maid.”

The men exchanged glances. The other guard shrugged and stepped forward. “I’ll take her and see if she’s telling the truth.”

Emily bobbed a curtsy, “Thank you, sir.” Her heart pounded with each step they took toward the house. Would the cook help her? She sent up a thousand pleas to heaven that Mrs. Graham would not betray her.

The man led her to the servants’ entrance in the back. Inside the kitchen, maids scurried about, peeling potatoes and stirring dishes. Mrs. Graham directed the bustle of activity with the grace of a conductor.

“You, there, slice the bread. And, Mary, be sure to inspect the strawberries. There mustn’t be a speck of white.”

The guard cleared his throat. “This chit claims you’ve hired her as the new scullery maid.”

Emily straightened and stared hard at Mrs. Graham. The other servants froze, eyeing one another. Emily gave a faint nod of encouragement, willing the cook to follow her lead.

Mrs. Graham’s eyes widened, but she did not argue. “Why, yes. It’s about time you arrived. You were supposed to be here this morning, girl.”

“Beg pardon, mum,” Emily murmured, bobbing another curtsy.

Mrs. Graham took her by the shoulders and nodded to the guard. “Thank you for bringing her. There’s a meat pie on the table there, if you’re hungry.” The guard’s face relaxed, and he accepted the bribe before leaving.

Afterwards, Mrs. Graham handed her a clean apron. Silence filled the kitchen as everyone stared. Emily donned the apron, tying it slowly. “Please do not tell my uncle I am here.”

At their curious looks, she added, “I cannot tell you everything now, but I give you my promise that you will be rewarded for your help.”

Emily cleared her throat. “My nephew and niece—Royce and Victoria—are they upstairs with Anna?”

“They are here, my lady,” Mrs. Graham answered, “but the nursemaid is not. Mr. Barrow hired another woman in the village to care for Victoria.”

“And my husband?”

Mrs. Graham shook her head. “I have not seen Lord Whitmore.”

The words dropped like a blade, slicing through her. Emily gripped the folds of her apron, masking her emotions. “I am sure he will be along shortly,” she managed. “In the meantime, I should like to remain among you. I—I can cook or clean or whatever you require of me.”

Mrs. Graham must have sensed her agitation, for she took Emily’s hand. “I’ll not say a word to the master, if that’s what you want,” she offered. “And neither will anyone else.” She sent a firm glare to the other servants. “No one knows of your presence, save us.”

“Thank you.” Emily picked up a knife and a carrot. Her fingers shook as she struggled to peel it.

Stephen had sworn he would come for the children. He’d given his promise to save them. That night Emily had believed he would walk through the fires of hell. He cared for the children, perhaps loved them as she did.

But he wasn’t here.

A numbing haze strangled her heart, until she had to set the knife down. Was Stephen already dead? The thought transfixed her imagination with horror. The vast feeling of emptiness consumed her, swallowing her up. To never see his face again or hear him tease her…It made her want to weep useless tears. She loved him, and the stupid man was not supposed to die.

Angrily, she pushed the tears aside, taking vengeance upon the helpless carrot with the knife. Weeping would not bring him back, nor would it help the children. At any moment, the marquess and Quentin were planning an attack. She needed to be ready, should they require her assistance. Nigel would not get away with this.

She butchered another carrot, turning her attention to the stew next. A pity she had no arsenic, for at the moment, poisoning her uncle seemed like a fine solution.

Two days later, Stephen approached the manor, at last confident in his plans. It had taken more time than he’d intended to recruit the assistance he needed. His men stood ready, armed and hidden from view. Now nothing would stop him from seizing victory.

He walked toward the house, his hands raised in feigned surrender. Inside his coat he’d hidden a pepperbox pistol, fully loaded with six bullets. Two of Nigel’s men guarded the gates.

“I have business with Nigel Barrow,” Stephen said. “Tell him Lord Whitmore has arrived.” Though he expected the men to draw their weapons, to his surprise, they lowered them. “He is waiting for you,” one said. “I’ll escort you there.”

Stephen followed the man, not letting his gaze betray the presence of his companions. They knew to shadow him and would be ready at his signal.

A slight motion caught his attention. Stephen saw the glint of the other guard’s revolver, and he spun, firing his weapon. The guard dropped forward, and a second shot rang out from beside Stephen. A scarlet stain spread across the guard’s heart, his eyes wide with surprise.

“They planned to murder you before you reached the house,” his friend Michael Thorpe remarked, emerging from the trees. “Do you want us to accompany you?”

As a former schoolmate, Stephen trusted Michael to guard his back. Years of military service made it an easy matter for his friend to disappear from view.

Stephen nodded. “Stay out of sight. Likely, they heard the shots, and with any luck, they may believe I am dead.”

He moved toward the tall boxwood hedge surrounding the outer garden, working his way closer to the servants’ entrance. The heavy scent of roses intensified as he reached the house gardens. Thankfully, the hedges provided numerous hiding places.

He counted silently to thirty, waiting for the others to take their places. Outside, he saw a maid beating a large carpet, the dust billowing in the breeze. She stood between him and the entrance. He held his position, waiting patiently for her to return to the house.

She raised the paddle and gave a sound blow to the carpet, attacking it as though it were an enemy. After nearly five minutes of pounding the dust, she set her paddle down and glanced toward Stephen’s hiding place.

Dear God in heaven. It was Emily, disguised as a maid.

Heedless of who might be watching, Stephen crept up behind her. Dragging her behind the hedge, he muffled her terrified shriek. “What the hell do you think you are doing?”

Emily’s face whitened, but she made no sound even when he released his palm from her mouth.

“I told you to stay in London where you’d be safe.” His grip upon her was so fierce, he wanted to throttle her. The very thought of her putting herself in danger was unacceptable. Did she think no one would recognize her?

“You’re not dead,” she whispered, her hand moving to his face. “I thought—”

“You thought I would try to rescue them alone?” He sighed in disgust. “I am not an utter fool.”

He relaxed his grip upon her, suddenly aware that anyone could see them. “Listen carefully. My men are going to surround the house and enter at my signal. You need to leave now and return to the village.”

She was shaking her head. “Not yet. I—”

“He wants us dead, Emily. Both of us. We know too much about his business dealings for him to let us live.” He had to make her understand that Nigel was not a man to be reasoned with.

“Yes, I know that, but—”

“Then you should understand the necessity of staying out of harm’s way. Why on God’s earth you thought to come alone is the most idiotic—”

Emily’s hand covered his mouth. “If you will stop interrupting me, I have something important to tell you. Quentin and your father are here.”

If it were possible for his anger to get any worse, it did. “You brought them into this?”

She stared at the grass as though it were the most fascinating vegetation alive. “I wanted to help you. They accompanied me here and arrived a few moments ago. They are in the drawing room with Nigel, I believe.”

He closed his eyes, trying to calm the wrath inside him. “They might die now because of what you’ve done.”

He moved back into the shadow of the hedge. He had already lost one brother; he didn’t plan to lose Quentin, too. And though he and his father had their differences, it seemed he had little choice but to surrender to Nigel.

Emily’s eyes glinted with unshed tears, and her mouth tightened. “I asked them to come because I loved you. I didn’t want you to die. I suppose I was an idiot to want to help you.” With that, she picked up her paddle and marched toward the house. As she passed the carpet, she gave a ferocious swing, sending another puff of dust into the air. Stephen watched her leave, her head held high.

Time stretched on, infinite moments passing while he deliberated what to do next. Though he wanted to blame Emily, he couldn’t quite get his mind around what she had said earlier. She loved him? Had she really come this distance in an effort to save him?

He moved back away from the gardens, signaling to Michael. “I am going after them.”

“I don’t like the risk,” Michael responded. “Nigel could kill you first.”

“If I don’t return within the hour, move your men into place.”

Control settled over him once more. The task before him threatened the lives of everyone close to him. He had not been able to save Emily’s brother before. Now he would save his family or die trying.