Emily couldn’t believe Whitmore’s rude behavior, but at last she managed to find her voice. “Sir, I am grateful for your offer, but now that my husband is here, I do not need an escort.”

With a false cough Freddie said, “Lady Whitmore, perhaps I should be going.”

“An excellent idea,” the earl interrupted. “You might take an extended tour of the Continent starting in the morning while you are about it. And stop sending flowers.”

After Freddie beat a hasty departure, Emily snapped open her fan, suddenly feeling not at all sure she should have come. “Hello, Whitmore.”

“Why are you here?” Her husband's voice was edged with anger, cutting down her fragile courage.

She stared at one of the potted plants, taken aback by his tone. “You said that it wasn’t necessary for me to come, not that you didn’t want me here. Should I return home?”

“We’ll talk first. Meet me by the stone urns near the garden.” Stephen did not wait for a response but strode away. Emily glanced around, and saw several women staring at her, whispering.

She didn’t know what stories were coursing about London, but she was sure their gossip was not at all flattering. One of the matrons stared at her, before turning her back.

It cut her apart to see it, but Emily didn’t know if her father’s scandal or her marriage was the reason.

She waited endless minutes, trying to avoid notice. She ordered her maid Beatrice to maintain a slight distance. Eventually, she made her way to the terrace and located the stone urns Stephen had mentioned. The light fragrance of verbena drifted from the soil.

Her husband emerged from the shadows, gesturing. Emily moved forward until she stood beside a tall boxwood. From the ballroom, no one would see her speaking to the earl.

Stephen lowered his voice so as not to be heard. “Someone tried to kill me tonight just before the ball. He took the place of my driver. I left his body near the park and alerted the authorities.”

Shock suffused her, and her heart nearly stopped at the thought of losing him. But she couldn't think of anything to say. Words tangled in her head, and his expression hardened.

Though Stephen had tried to push the memory out of his mind, it lingered. The smell of gunpowder, the slick feeling of a man’s lifeblood, haunted him. It intensified his need to understand why his life was in danger. And he regretted bringing Emily into this.

His wife said nothing at first, her silence damning.

“Did you wish they had been successful?” he inquired darkly.

“I thought the danger was over,” she admitted. “Why would anyone want you dead?”

“I have my suspicions. It may be related to a shipping venture I made several months ago.”

“What does that have to do with the attacks?”