by Cheryl Holt
“Let us pray!” he repeated more petulantly, but not a single head bowed in deference. He glowered, but they refused to be cowed.
“As you decline to join in,” he fumed, “I shall skip forward to deliver my sermon. Obviously, all of you could benefit from a stern administration of the truth.”
Silence and sneers greeted him. One man yawned.
“Today, I will address several topics, including respect for authority, respect for the Church, respect for—”
“Where is Emeline Wilson?”
The interruption was the last straw. They weren’t in a tavern where patrons could shout and bicker.
“Who said that?” he bellowed.
Old Mr. Templeton stood. “What have you and Mason done with her?”
“We are in God’s house”—Oscar pounded his fist on the podium—“and you will not utter that harlot’s name under His roof!”
At his spewing the horrid term, there were gasps, and Templeton was undaunted.
“I know Emeline was many things, but she wasn’t that. I don’t care what lies you tell.”
“We are not in a collegiate debating society,” Oscar haughtily scolded. “This is a religious service. If you can’t listen and absorb the Holy Word, then I insist you leave.”
“While we’re at it,” another oaf butted in, “where’s your sister? Ain’t nobody seen her since your maid stumbled on you beating her bloody in the vicarage.”
“Beating her?” Oscar’s voice was shrill.
Was that the story that had spread? How was he to counter it? They might well have asked when he’d quit beating his dog. He couldn’t mount a defense.
“I’ve not laid a hand on my sister,” he declared, “despite how thoroughly she deserved a good whipping.”
“Where is she then?” Mr. Templeton demanded. “What are you hiding?”
“You doubt me?” Oscar thundered. “Me? I am your moral compass. You will not impugn my integrity.”
“If you don’t start giving me some straight answers,” Templeton retorted, “I’m going to London to fetch the earl to Stafford. He’ll be extremely interested in your activities.”
On his mentioning Lord Stafford, Oscar blanched. He and Mason couldn’t have the disreputable scoundrel apprised of their exploits. Nicholas Price was volatile and dangerous, and Mason had maintained that he was fond of Emeline. If she’d been harmed, there was no predicting how he might retaliate.
The doors at the rear of the church slammed open, sunlight streaming in, and a large man was silhouetted in the threshold. Oscar squinted, trying to see who it was. He couldn’t abide tardiness, and his parishioners knew better than to arrive late.
“You there!” Oscar called. “The service is already in progress. Come in or depart.”
There was a long, tense pause, then the fellow said, “I believe I’ll come in.”
He marched through the vestibule, a second man tromping in behind him. They entered the church proper, and as they materialized out of the shadows—gad, Nicholas and Stephen Price!—Oscar gulped with dismay.
“Lord Stafford,” he weakly rasped, “I thought you were in London.”
“It seems I’ve returned.”
“How kind of you to grace us with your presence.”
“Isn’t it though?”
The blackguard studied the rows of vacant seats.
“It’s a bit quiet this morning, Vicar,” he pointed out.
“There’s an influenza going around,” Oscar fibbed. “People are ill.”
“Are they?”
The earl snorted, then arrogantly strode down the aisle. He sat in the front pew to Oscar’s right. His brother sat in the pew to Oscar’s left. They both slouched, their legs stretched out, ankles crossed.
Their disrespect was infuriating, and Oscar was about to remark when Mr. Templeton asked, “Lord Stafford, may I speak?”
“In a moment, Mr. Templeton. Your esteemed vicar is in the middle of his sermon. I’d like to hear the topic.”
Oscar gnawed on his cheek. He’d been discussing Emeline Wilson. Since the earl had been complicit in her ruination, he was equally guilty of moral turpitude. Whatever castigation was flung at Emeline, the earl warranted the same rebuke.
Didn’t he?
To Oscar’s great shame, he hesitated.
Nicholas Price wouldn’t appreciate being scolded. Yet Oscar was the earl’s spiritual leader. If he didn’t urge the earl onto a virtuous path, who would?
Still, there was Oscar’s job to consider. And the vicarage, and his salary, and his fine clothes, and his delicious dinners. Only a fool would risk so much.
“Well, Vicar,” the earl taunted, “I’m waiting. Get on with it before I fall asleep.”
Lord Stafford stared up at him, his blue eyes filled with contempt for all that Oscar was and all that he represented. There was a challenge in his gaze, and Oscar was determined to quash it.
“I was preaching of harlots,” Oscar intoned, not flinching.
“Were you?”
“I was explaining the damage a corrupt woman can inflict on a man’s soul. The siren’s song can lure a man to his doom.”
“Those sirens don’t have to do much luring.” The earl smirked. “Most men walk to their doom without any coaxing at all.”
His levity was maddening, and Oscar would not be mocked. His temper soared.
“Will you confess your sins, Lord Stafford?” Oscar roared. “Will you admit your depravity and seek the Lord’s forgiveness?”
“I’d rather not,” he snidely replied. “Let’s talk about Emeline Wilson instead.”
“You will not speak of that whore in my church!”
Quick as lightning, the earl was on his feet. In two leaps, he was behind the podium, and he had Oscar by the throat.
“I’ve made inquiries about your Sheriff Pratt,” the earl warned, “so I know where he lives. Tell me where he’s taken her and save me the trouble of tracking him down.”
“I will tell you nothing,” Oscar hissed. “If punishment is imposed on the petty harlot, it is no more than she deserves.”
Lord Stafford was very strong. With one arm, he threw Oscar away, and Oscar crashed into a table covered with vases of flowers and burning candles. A mix of hot wax and fetid water dripped onto his vestments. He tried to stand, but his limbs wouldn’t obey.
The earl loomed into view. “Emeline Wilson is my—”
“She is a whore!” Oscar insisted.
If he hadn’t been so flustered, he might have seen the blow coming, but he didn’t. Nicholas Price punched him in the face. Oscar embarrassed himself by whimpering and slumping to the floor.
“Emeline is my tenant,” the earl started again, “and my dear friend, and my affianced bride.”
“She is not.”
“She is, you pathetic swine. How dare you insult her with your slurs and lies.”
Lord Stafford grabbed Oscar by his clothes, pulling him up until they were nose to nose. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out what you’d done? Did you think I wouldn’t care?”
Suddenly, Lt. Price was there, saying, “Let him go, Nicholas. Let him go.”
“No, I intend to kill him.”
“We have to get her home,” Lt. Price said. “Focus on that. We’ll locate this sheriff, and once she’s safe, we’ll deal with Blair.”
Lt. Price pushed his brother away, as Mr. Templeton piped up from out in the pews. “May I speak now, milord?”
“What is it?” the earl asked. “Please make it fast. I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“While you’re questioning this sheriff about Miss Wilson, could you also ask him about the vicar’s sister?”
“Mrs. Merrick? What about her?”
“She’s disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“What do you suspect happened to her?” the earl inquired.
“He was always awful to the poor woman. His maid and cook have described how he browbeat her, locked her in her room, and the like. Folks are wondering if he hasn’t finally killed her.”
Lt. Price grabbed Oscar—just as his brother had a minute earlier—and yanked him to his feet.
“What have you done to her?” Lt. Price shouted.
“Me? I’ve done nothing!” Oscar said.
“Where is she?” Lt. Price bellowed so loudly that Oscar’s ears rang.
The earl approached Oscar and seethed, “You have one chance to tell me the truth. Admit your crime, and it will go easier on you.”
“My crime!” Oscar huffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
The earl peered out at Mr. Templeton. “You’re sure she’s missing?”
“Vanished without a trace, milord. We’ve been pestering the vicar as to her whereabouts, but he won’t say.”
“Then there’s no hope for it, Blair.” The earl sighed. “I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of your sister.”
“Of all the ludicrous, insane, fantastical—” Oscar began to protest, but Lt. Price cut him off.
“Shut up,” Lt. Price threatened, “or I will rip your head from your shoulders.”
“Mr. Templeton,” the earl called, “could you escort the vicar to the jail for me?”
“I’d be delighted, Lord Stafford.”
“Release me!” Oscar snarled. “I am a servant of the Lord. I am the vicar of your church. I will not be treated like a common—”
Lt. Price clasped Oscar’s wrists and pinned his arms, as the earl retrieved a kerchief from his coat and stuffed it in Oscar’s mouth.
“I believe,” the earl said, “that my brother told you to shut the hell up.”
“Mmm . . . mmm . . .” Oscar was unable to talk, but the two brothers perceived his message: I’ll kill you for this, I’ll kill you for this. Under the circumstances, it probably wasn’t the best of sentiments.
“Until I return,” the earl ordered, “I want him held on bread and water rations.”
“I’ll see to it,” Mr. Templeton said, appearing gleeful at the prospect.
“Now I have to go,” the earl said. “Save me some time, Blair. Where has Sheriff Pratt taken Emeline?”
Oscar glared, his loathing clear, but the earl simply grinned.
“If we can’t convince an executioner to hang you,” the earl said, “I’ll be happy to pull the rope myself.”
“You’ll have to get in line ahead of me,” Lt. Price retorted.
“As to you, Vicar Blair,” the earl sneered, “you’ve preached your last sermon in my church. And if Emeline or her sisters has been harmed, you’ve drawn your last breath too.”
The earl and his brother raced out.
“Sheriff Pratt!”
Emeline used her breakfast plate to bang on the bars of her cell, but she wasn’t sure why she bothered. He hadn’t responded to any of her summons.
She hated the uncertainty over her future. Throughout her days in his jail, Pratt had been the only person she saw. Despite how she questioned him, he wouldn’t provide the tiniest detail of what was to occur. Nor would he divulge any information about Nan and Nell.
Emeline had no idea where they were, so even if she managed to escape Pratt’s clutches, she hadn’t a clue where to search. It wasn’t as if she could rush to Stafford and ask Mr. Mason or Oscar Blair.
“Oh, Nicholas,” she murmured, “do you know what happened? Do you care?”
She was positive he didn’t. He was married and off on his honeymoon. Emeline was at the bottom of a very long list of topics that wouldn’t cross his mind, and it bordered on insanity that she would even wonder about him.
Since he’d left, so much had transpired that she didn’t feel they’d actually met. He could have been a character in a novel or a warrior in a poem. He didn’t seem real anymore.
Pratt’s footsteps sounded, and she struggled to remain calm. She was terrified that—on one of his visits—he would escort her to the gallows.
He lumbered to the door, and to her surprise, he unlocked it and gestured for her to exit. She wanted to comply, but fear had her frozen in place.
“Where am I going?”
“To London.”
“Why London?”
“You’ll find out when you get there.”
“Please, I need to know. Why can’t you say?”
He shrugged. “I suppose it can’t hurt to tell you. You’re being transported.”
Her heart sank. “To where?”
“Australia.”
“I don’t wish to travel to Australia.”
“Did you hear me ask your opinion?”
“And my sisters. Will they be joining me?”
“You hadn’t ought to worry about them. It will only make things more difficult.”
“Why? Have they been harmed?”
“No, but you’re better off letting go of the past. It will be easier for you.”
“I raised my sisters from the time they were babies. They’re as dear to me as if they were my own daughters. Surely you can see why I’m afraid for them. I can’t just let them go.”
He didn’t reply, but waved toward the street.
“Daylight’s wasting,” he said. “We must be off.”
“On whose authority am I being sent to London? Have I been convicted? Of what charge?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
“It’s irrelevant. Don’t work yourself into a dither.”
He’d brought a rope, and he stomped over, grabbed her arms, and forced them behind her back. He tied her wrists tightly enough to cut the skin and hinder circulation.
“There’s no need to be such a brute,” she complained.
“I intend that you aren’t able to flee.”
“I won’t try. I promise.”
“You wouldn’t be the first whore who ran on me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of running.”
He snorted. “Wouldn’t you? Trust me, little lady, I can see it in your eyes. You’re determined to thwart me, but I mean to deliver you as contracted.”
“To whom am I being delivered?”
“Never you mind, but be aware that you’ll fetch me a pretty penny.”
Had she been sold like an African slave? How could such a despicable deed be permitted in a civilized society? She had to prevent him from proceeding, but she couldn’t figure out how.
He marched her outside, and though she kicked and protested, her paltry efforts had no effect. A cart awaited them, an enclosed box on the back that had a sturdy lock on the door. Panic swept over her. She was certain that—if she climbed in—she’d vanish and no one would ever know what became of her.
Her resistance increased, but she couldn’t stop him. He tossed her in, and she huddled on the floor as he jumped onto the front seat and whipped the horses into a trot.
The cart had no springs, and with her limbs bound, she couldn’t brace herself as they flew over holes and bumps. She was jostled incessantly, her head aching, her body bruised.
After an eternity had passed, they slowed and turned off the road, the vehicle bouncing to a halt. Pratt hauled her out, and she glanced around to discover that they were in a secluded woods, standing next to a hunter’s cottage.
“What’s happening?” she asked. “Why are we here?”
Pratt pushed her toward the door. “Go on in.”
She dug in her heels. “Not until you tell me who’s in there.”
> “Why are you so contrary? Why can’t you simply do as you’re told?”
“I was born contrary.”
“That I can believe.”
He pushed her again, but she wouldn’t budge, so he dragged her over.
“The man paid me good money,” Pratt explained, “and I’ve promised him an hour with you.”
“What?”
“Don’t fight him. There’s no use getting yourself hurt.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll be timing him, so bear up. It will be over before you know it.”
She started to brawl in earnest, and Pratt cuffed her alongside the head, hard enough that she saw stars.
“You hit me!”
“Well, don’t be stupid, and I won’t have to resort to violence.”
“Whatever you’ve planned, I won’t meekly consent like a lamb to the slaughter.”
“You’ll obey me, or I’ll tie you down. Don’t make me. I suspect he’d enjoy it too much.”
He knocked once, and a man bid them enter. Pratt carried her in.
The shutters were closed, the room dimly lit, the man hidden in the shadows, and Emeline gasped as Pratt said, “Here she is, Mr. Mason. Do what you will with her, but when you’re finished, she needs to be in sound enough condition to travel.”
“She’ll be able to travel.”
“One hour.”
“One hour,” Mason concurred, “but don’t be in any hurry.”
“One hour,” Pratt repeated, “and that’s it.”
He tugged at her bindings, releasing her, then he turned to go.
“Don’t leave me with him,” Emeline begged, and she ran over and pulled Pratt to a halt.
“Don’t resist,” Pratt counseled. “Just get through it, and we’ll continue on.”
“Please!” she implored, but Pratt shoved her at Mason, and Mason caught her.
“Hello, Emeline,” Mason crooned. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Emeline tried to lunge away, to chase after Pratt, but Mason trapped her against his body. His private parts were pressed to her thigh, and she could feel his erect phallus.
Ravishment? Was that his ploy? He’d paid for the privilege?
“Sheriff!” Emeline called, and Pratt whipped around.
