He did not try to kiss her again, knowing she would refuse him. As he left her in the shadow of her uncle’s house, he pushed all thoughts away until only the icy mindset of retribution remained.

He would not stop until he had redeemed himself in the eyes of his wife.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“My 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.”