Royce had joined in the chorus, whining that he wanted to go home, and threatening to run away to find his papa. Emily counted silently to fifty and reminded herself that London was not far now. It had begun to rain, the fat drops drumming against the coach in rhythm to the horses” hooves.

After Victoria had cried herself into exhaustion and Royce’s tousled head rested in Emily’s lap, the familiar sights of London surrounded her. In the night, she could see only the murky waters of the Thames gleaming against the gaslights. Familiar dark smells infiltrated the coach, dredging up a deep, horrible fear.

I cannot do this, she thought. How could she arrive upon the marquess’s doorstep, demanding to see her husband? But she had no choice. Falkirk House was no longer safe.

The coach slowed and drew to a halt. The driver opened the door for her, and she whispered to Anna, “Wait here.” The nursemaid nodded, cradling Victoria in her arms.

Emily prayed that Stephen would grant them shelter. It was long past the time for callers, and rain pounded the streets. The moonless sky brooded against the elegant stone façade of the marquess’s residence. Tall glass windows reflected flickering shadows of the night.

Emily ignored the rain and marched up to the front door. She reminded herself that she had to behave with the haughtiness of a Countess, whether she felt like one or not. Then she knocked firmly.

A footman opened the door, his eyebrows raised as though she were a rat come in off the streets. Emily returned the man’s curious glare with one of purpose. “Step back from the door, if you please. I do not intend to stay out in this weather.”

He blinked at her. “The servants’ entrance is in the back, madam.”

“I am hardly a servant.” Emily stepped forward, pushing him out of the way. “And if my husband heard you accusing me of such, he would be most insulted.”

The footman’s expression turned curious. Emily unfastened her cloak and bonnet, offering them to the man. He did not accept the dripping garments.

“Whom shall I say is here?” the footman inquired, still seeming as though he intended to throw her out.

“I am Lady Whitmore,” Emily said, sweeping past him. “And the earl is expecting our arrival.”

When lightning did not smite her into the polished hardwood floors, it was a good sign that perhaps her lie would be forgiven. Well, it wasn’t really a lie. Stephen had asked her to come to London at first; she could simply say that she’d changed her mind. Yes, that was it.

“What is your name?” she inquired of the footman.

“I am Phillips,” the footman replied. His posture was so rigid, Emily rather thought he resembled a hat rack.