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.