by Cheryl Holt
Their horses walked, then trotted, then cantered. She watched as they grew smaller and smaller, until they were just a speck on the horizon.
They arrived at the end of the driveway and rode onto the lane that would lead them through Stafford village, then to London and the wide world beyond.
He was leaving very much behind—herself and his home—and she was certain he would at least peek around as the manor vanished from sight, but he never glanced back a single time.
“Has the earl left?”
“Yes.”
“And his brother?”
“Departed too.”
“Good riddance.”
Benedict Mason couldn’t agree more. He raised his brandy glass and clinked it to Oscar Blair’s. They were in the vicarage, in Blair’s study.
They had a mutual interest in having the Price brothers gone from Stafford.
The earl was a heathen and blasphemer, so Blair wouldn’t ever want him looking too closely at some of the methods he employed to keep his congregation in line. A sinner like Price might not deem some transgressions to be worth the punishment Blair liked to extract.
As to Benedict, he was especially glad to see Stephen Price ride away.
When the brothers had initially arrived, Benedict was convinced that they were barely literate and wouldn’t know an account ledger from a hedgerow. But the prior evening, he’d been walking after dark, and he’d passed the estate office at the rear of the manor. Lt. Price had been there, sitting at Benedict’s desk and snooping through the books.
He’d been taking notes, adding and subtracting long columns of numbers, and Benedict was unsettled by his heightened attention. He’d yearned to march in and demand answers, but he could hardly complain that the Price brothers were reviewing their finances. Yet the discovery had had him pacing the floor most of the night.
With the brothers having trotted off, his first order of business would be to check his math for any incriminating errors. His second order of business was to deal with Emeline Wilson once and for all.
Lord Stafford’s parting instructions had been that Emeline was to have her accursed school. The decision had Benedict too incensed to think straight.
The truth had finally been told. The earl was paying her for services rendered. And a fine remuneration it was too. A cozy house in the village. A classroom with the most modern books and amenities. A salary. Servants.
He would not stand for it and—he was certain—neither would the vicar.
“There is another topic we must address,” he informed Blair. “It’s rather unpleasant.”
“What is it?”
“I should have come to you sooner, but with the earl still in residence, I didn’t dare.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s Emeline Wilson.”
Blair sighed. “Isn’t it always? What’s she done now?”
“I doubt you’ll believe me. When I stumbled on the news myself, I was stunned.”
“Where she is concerned, nothing would surprise me.”
Benedict was silent, his rage bubbling up, and he found himself too embarrassed to describe what he’d learned.
He didn’t speak, and the vicar pressed, “Well? Let’s have it. My curiosity is begging to be assuaged.”
“I apologize for being blunt, but there’s no gracious way to begin.”
“Candor is welcome.”
“Yes, but this is quite a bit beyond candor.”
“Just spit it out. I’m sure I’ll survive.”
“She . . . she . . . while living at the manor, she’s been engaged in a sexual affair with Nicholas Price.”
Blair squinted as if confused. “What?”
“They’ve been having a sexual affair. She shared his bed.”
“They fornicated? Without benefit of marriage?”
“Yes.”
“The man is the very Devil. I’m convinced of it.”
“He is very wicked,” Benedict agreed.
“Did he seduce her or was she forced?”
“There was no force involved. She might be highly educated, but she’s a fool who swallowed his lies. He probably promised he’d marry her.”
“He never would,” Blair scoffed.
“You and I know that, but she’s a sheltered female. She wouldn’t understand the physical . . . urges of a cad like Nicholas Price.”
“No, she wouldn’t,” Blair concurred. “You’re positive of this?”
“Absolutely.”
“How dare she!” Blair hissed. “For shame!”
Blair’s cheeks heated with fury, and Benedict almost felt sorry for Emeline. Almost.
Benedict had seen how Blair punished another girl who’d had the nerve to immorally copulate. His reaction had been ugly and vicious, but it certainly kept other illicit couplings to a minimum.
“What shall we do with her?” Blair asked.
“I have a few suggestions.”
“First and foremost, she will be accused of harlotry and brought up on charges.”
“Of course,” Benedict said, “but we must proceed cautiously.”
“Why? We must make an example of her.” Blair appeared gleeful at the prospect. “The whole town must hear how she’s sinned. I insist on it.”
“The earl was fond of her.”
“So? What bearing has his sentiment on her crime?”
“If he came back and discovered that we’d moved against her, he might be angry.”
Blair pondered, then nodded. “That could pose some difficulties.”
“I thought we could use that sheriff you know, the fellow we used before.”
Blair had an old acquaintance, Sheriff Pratt, who was more than happy to take care of neighborhood situations—if the price was right. They had called on him previously when they’d been plagued by troublemakers who needed to vanish.
The prior four miscreants had all been men, and Benedict had no inkling of what became of them. They hadn’t returned to Stafford, and it was rumored that they’d been transported to Australia.
Emeline could be spirited away, and there’d be no trace of where she’d gone. After her antics with the earl over her purported labor strike, she was generally disliked, so there would be no inquiries about her.
However, if questions were ever raised, Blair and Benedict were good liars. They could easily say they had no idea what had happened to her. They were pillars of the community. Who would contradict their story?
“What about her sisters?” Blair asked. “In light of this scandal, she’s hardly a fit guardian.”
“We could have them placed in the poorhouse, but it might be better to send them on to an orphanage in London. If they disappear too, everyone will simply assume they went somewhere with their sister.”
“I would prefer the orphanage,” Blair mused.
“Will you write to Sheriff Pratt or shall I?”
“I will,” Blair said.
“I’d like to have this handled in the next few weeks. The earl ordered me to move her into a house in the village—”
“A house!” Blair gasped. “Of her own?”
“Yes. She’s to live there as long as she likes.”
“Is he mad? We’re a pious town. He must know we’d never tolerate such indecency.”
“She must have been quite adept at earning her keep,” Benedict caustically asserted. “She must have learned just how to please him.”
“The filthy slut,” Blair muttered, surprising Benedict with his voicing the crude term. “To think that I’ve had her in my home, that she’s friends with my sister.”
“It boggles the mind, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does, but we’ll have the problem fixed in no time.”
Blair’s eyes were burning with the religious fervor that
came over him whenever he was gearing up to root out evil, and he’d found an easy mark in Emeline. She didn’t stand a chance against him.
She had no one to help her, no one who’d be concerned over her plight, except perhaps Mrs. Merrick. But Emeline would be long gone before Mrs. Merrick realized she was missing.
His business finished, Benedict stood.
“Contact me when you hear from the sheriff,” he said.
“I’ll let you know immediately.”
They shook hands, and Benedict left. He whistled all the way to the manor.
“Miss Wilson?”
“Yes?”
A maid peeked in Emeline’s bedroom door.
“Mr. Mason asked me to fetch you to his office. He needs to speak with you.”
Emeline huffed out an irritated breath.
Wasn’t it just her luck? The irksome man was supposed to be at her beck and call as they reopened the school, but since the earl’s departure, he’d avoided her like the plague.
Now, when there was no reason to chat with him ever again, he’d suddenly reared his pompous head.
The coach fare from Cornwall had been received, and she was furtively packing their meager possessions. She planned for them to leave the manor casually, as if they were simply taking a stroll, but they weren’t coming back.
At the end of the driveway, they wouldn’t go to Stafford village, but to a town in the opposite direction. They would spend the night at an inn, then travel on the public coach the following morning.
She couldn’t arrive at her post looking like a pauper, so they would each wear one of the dresses Lord Stafford had purchased for them. The rest of his gifts would be left behind.
In her new life, she wanted no mementoes of Nicholas Price to weigh her down, so she would take only what she’d had when they initially moved into the manor. Later on, once they were settled in Cornwall, she would buy her sisters clothes with her own money.
“I’m very busy,” she told the maid. “Could you advise Mr. Mason that I’ll meet with him tomorrow?”
Ha! Tomorrow she’d be gone.
“He says it’s very important. You must come down.”
Emeline gnawed on her cheek, wanting to decline, but knowing she couldn’t. Benedict Mason was so arrogant. If she refused to attend him, she’d draw notice to herself at the very moment she yearned to be invisible.
“All right,” she grumbled. “He’s in his office?”
“Yes, Miss.”
She started out and as she passed the girl, she asked, “Have you seen my sisters?”
“Not all morning.”
“If you stumble on them, would you inform them that I need them to be up here in my room when I return?”
“I will.”
Emeline hurried down the stairs, proceeding through the deserted halls that led to Mason’s office at the rear of the mansion.
She was curious as to why she’d been summoned, and she figured he was prepared to discuss the school. She had to make the appropriate responses, so she rehearsed several possible conversations in her head, but none of it mattered.
In her mind, she was already far away from Stafford.
She approached the door and knocked. As he bade her enter, she spun the knob and walked in. To her consternation, Mr. Mason wasn’t alone. Vicar Blair was with him, and she nearly snarled with disgust.
With the vicar visiting the manor, he’d be intent on scolding her over some perceived misdeed, but she was in no mood to listen.
They were glaring as if she was the worst felon in history, and they’d positioned the space for an inquisition. There was a single chair against the wall, where it was obvious they expected her to sit. Two other, bigger chairs faced it.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Mason?” she said.
“Be seated, Miss Wilson,” he replied.
“I’ll stand, thank you.”
Behind her, the door closed, and the key grated in the lock. She glanced over to observe a third man loitering in the corner. She didn’t know him, but his presence indicated trouble.
He was a hulking, portly fellow, probably Vicar Blair’s age of forty, but he looked older, as if he’d had a harder life.
“Who are you?” she demanded, her manners having fled. She was too irritated for games or mysteries.
“I am Sheriff Pratt. I’m a friend of the vicar’s.” He nodded to the chair. “Sit down, Miss. Don’t argue about it.”
“I’d rather not.”
To her astonishment, the oaf grabbed her by the arm and pushed her down onto it. When she tried to rise, he put a beefy hand on her shoulder to hold her in place.
Emeline shrugged him off and warned, “Don’t touch me.”
He ignored her and peered over at Vicar Blair. “Let’s get on with it. I want to sleep in my own bed tonight, so we’ll need to be on the road in the next hour.”
“You can go now if you wish.” Emeline smiled sweetly at him. “We don’t mind.”
“Emeline!” Vicar Blair snapped, and she focused her scowl on him.
“What? I have no idea why you brought me here, and I won’t stay to be manhandled or brow beaten.”
“Fine,” the vicar said. “I’ll come straight to the point. You’re being charged with illicit fornication and harlotry. How do you plead?”
“I’m . . . I’m . . . what?”
“You’re charged with fornication and harlotry. Will you admit or deny your crimes?”
“My . . . crimes? You’re being ridiculous, and I’m leaving.”
“Oh, no, you’re not,” the sheriff barked. He shifted in a menacing way, as if he might physically restrain her.
Were they insane?
“What are you talking about?” she asked Vicar Blair. “I am a respectable gentlewoman, from a good family. My father was schoolteacher at this estate for three decades—as you’re well aware.”
“Yes, he was,” the vicar haughtily intoned, “and if he could see you now, what would he think?”
“My father loved me,” she fumed, “and he was proud of me. What would he think if he could see you now?”
Mr. Mason butted in. “You haven’t answered Vicar Blair. Will you admit or deny?”
“I vehemently deny, and I won’t sit here and be slandered by either of you.”
She leapt to her feet, and while Sheriff Pratt reached for her, she was too quick. She raced to the door and rattled the knob, having forgotten that the sheriff locked it. Though she yanked and yanked, it wouldn’t open.
She whipped around.
“Let me out! I insist!”
“You’ll go when I say you can.” The sheriff gestured to her chair. “Return to your seat and behave yourself. I’m not above wrestling with a recalcitrant woman, but I’d just as soon not.”
He grabbed her again, but she jerked away and went to the other side of the room. She stood, glowering.
“You have insulted and offended me,” she furiously said to Vicar Blair, “and I demand to know what this is about.”
“We have ample evidence of your perfidy,” Vicar Blair declared. “We only allowed this meeting as a courtesy. We’re giving you a chance to defend yourself.”
“Against what?” she scoffed. “I haven’t the vaguest notion of what you’re claiming.”
“Don’t you?” The vicar was very smug. “Tell us about your affair with Lord Stafford.”
“Lord . . . Stafford?”
Her pulse pounded with dread.
As they’d tossed out words like harlotry and fornication, it had never occurred to her that they were referring to her trysts with Nicholas Price.
Her relationship with him had been fueled by love and affection. At least on her end. She shouldn’t have dallied with him, but she’d done it with the best of intentions. She’d thought he wou
ld marry her. She’d thought her esteem was fully reciprocated.
She’d been dead wrong, but she’d proceeded with high hopes and big dreams.
The vicar’s allegation made their association sound sordid and obscene. He made it sound . . . criminal.
A woman couldn’t blithely consort with a man. There were laws banning it. There were morals to prohibit it. There were community standards of decency and decorum to follow. There were Church teachings as to sin and damnation.
Still, she blustered, “Lord Stafford and I are friends. He helped me financially when my sisters and I were in dire straits. He let us live here at the manor, and he gave me a job as his secretary. I worked for him.”
“Flat on your back, it would seem,” Vicar Blair vulgarly retorted.
His cold certainty rattled her.
“Name one witness who can speak against me! Name one witness who ever observed so much as a glance between us that was inappropriate!”
“Actually,” Benedict Mason said, “I am that witness. I was happy to impart all that I discovered about the two of you.”
“You!” she huffed. “I scarcely know you. What basis could you have to accuse me of anything?”
The vicar picked up a stack of papers and waved them at Emeline.
“Mr. Mason has penned an extensive deposition. Shall I read some of it to you?”
Emeline panicked. She was cornered and couldn’t decide her course of action.
She understood that she had to deny and deny and deny any affair, but at what cost? If she asked him not to read from the deposition, was she implicating herself? If she brazened it out and urged him to go ahead, he might spew embarrassing personal details. She’d likely faint.
She could think of nothing worse than to stand before the three of them, while Oscar Blair recited a list of her transgressions. What could Mr. Mason possibly have told him? It had to be very, very bad.
She thought of Nicholas Price, the man she’d cherished, the man she’d presumed would be her husband. He was in London, leading his rich, indolent bachelor’s life, while she’d been left behind to face disgrace and humiliation all alone.
Was he aware of what they were doing? If he wasn’t, and he ever learned of it, would he even care?
