“You have a choice to make.” Emily drew back. “I will be attending Lady Thistlewaite’s ball, tomorrow night. Will you join me?”

The gauntlet had been thrown; the next move was his.

His day was rapidly getting worse, Stephen realized. The attempt on his life weighed upon him, and he didn’t know if a servant in his father’s household had been trying to poison him or whether Carstairs had done it.

He hadn’t told anyone about the poison, not even the servants. The cat had thankfully survived, though it had retched all over the parlor. But Stephen was left not knowing who to trust anymore.

He was starting to wonder more about Carstairs. He had offered refreshments, and the viscount had declined. Carstairs had also been in the parlor waiting for him, long enough to add poison to the food.

But again, why? Why did anyone want him dead? Were they afraid he’d remember something? It was enough to drive him mad.

Stephen kept one of the biscuits and strode down to the kitchen. The clatter of pots and pans mingled with the servants“ gossip. The noise came to an abrupt halt when he entered.

He held up the biscuit to the cook, Mrs. Raines. “Did you prepare these today?”

The stout, red-cheeked woman frowned. “Yes, my lord. But there was no sugar upon them. The biscuits were plain.”

Her confusion appeared genuine, and Stephen pressed further. “Who brought the tea tray up?”

“I did, my lord. But I can’t say as I know about that sugar. That would make the biscuits far too sweet, and I would never do such a thing. You aren’t one to like your biscuits overly sweet, and—”

“That will do, Mrs. Raines.” He could see her panic escalating.

“I’m so sorry if you didn’t like them, my lord. I won’t prepare them again.”

He lifted a hand. “Did you bring the tea service after the viscount arrived?”

She stopped. “No, my lord. I left it there beforehand, since I wanted to be sure it was waiting for your guest.”

“Did you pour the tea?”

“Of course, not, my lord. It would grow cold, otherwise.”

His heart nearly stopped. The cups of tea had already been poured upon his arrival. Was the tea poisoned as well? But then, Carstairs had consumed a full cup. He relaxed a little. Likely he would have felt the effects by now, if that were true.

“Thank you, Mrs. Raines.”

He departed the kitchen, his thoughts turning back to his wife. He wished she’d never come to London. The only thing worse than having his own life in danger was watching her face the same threats. He couldn’t allow it.

If he had to tie her to a chair, Lady Whitmore would not attend the ball.