“I would have stopped it!”
“Why would you have? Mr. Mason was only obeying your orders.”
There had been many occasions in Nicholas’s life when he’d felt like a heel, but he’d never, ever, never felt lower or more despicable than he did at that moment.
He’d been to their cottage. Though decrepit and meager, the paltry abode had been a home, filled with furniture and personal items. Yet among the three of them, they had a few crammed pillowcases and a satchel.
The worst wave of dread swept over him.
“Where are the rest of your belongings?”
“We took what we could carry,” Miss Wilson said. “Everything else was lost in the fire.”
“Everything?” Nicholas gasped.
It was lucky he was tough and strong or his legs might have failed him.
The prior year, he’d set the estate on a course, recommended by Mason, but approved by himself, to get Stafford on a sound financial footing. The people affected hadn’t seemed real, so the consequences that were implemented hadn’t bothered him.
Mason had described a population of malingerers and sloths. He’d claimed the old countess had been too sentimental, that she never fired anyone despite how frivolous or useless.
But Emeline and her sisters weren’t lazy or indolent. They were simply three females who’d desperately needed his help, and he hadn’t given it to them. It was a sobering insight, facing the human cost of his decisions.
What kind of man was he? What kind of lord and master? Who would let such a terrible incident occur? He wouldn’t treat a dog as they’d been treated.
He and Stephen shared another visual exchange, then Nicholas walked to the barn door and yanked it open.
“What are you doing?” Miss Wilson asked.
“I’m going to Stafford Manor, and you’re coming with me.”
“We have no intention of—”
“Don’t argue, Miss Wilson,” he barked. “Don’t complain and don’t protest. For once, just be silent and do as you’re told.”
“I repeat: What in the hell were you thinking?”
“Don’t curse at me.”
“If I thought you were listening, I’d speak in a respectful manner.”
“I’ll listen when you stop shouting.”
Emeline glared at Lord Stafford, wishing she had his ability to intimidate. They were in his library, her sisters whisked off by Lt. Price to the kitchen for some breakfast.
When they’d still been present, the earl had been terse but courteous. After they’d departed, Emeline had been left to face him on her own, without the girls to serve as a buffer to his temper.
She didn’t know how to deal with his volatile male personality. Her father, whom she’d adored, had been kind, educated, and humorous, of sound judgment and good cheer. There’d been no yelling or slamming of doors, no barked commands or furious verbal exchanges.
It had to be exhausting being Nicholas Price. How did he find the energy to maintain all that rage?
“You haven’t answered my question,” he said.
“That’s because you’ve asked so many, I can’t figure out where to start with replying.”
“How about at the beginning?”
The beginning? Where would that be? On the day thirty years earlier when the old countess had hired her father as the town’s teacher? On the day he married Emeline’s mother? On the day her mother died birthing the twins when Emeline was only fourteen?
Emeline had been thrust into the role of mother, so there had been no opportunity to choose another path.
If she’d wed, as was expected of a young lady, she wouldn’t currently be struggling. She’d have a home of her own, with a husband as breadwinner. She and her sisters would be safe instead of having been cast to the winds of fate by rich, capricious Nicholas Price.
He seemed to realize that she didn’t respond to bellowing. He reined himself in, and she was grateful for his restraint. She was too beaten down for quarreling and in no condition to spar.
“Miss Wilson—Emeline—” he said more gently, “I’m trying to understand why you were selling yourself at the market.”
“What was I supposed to do?”
“But to sell yourself to a stranger!” He shuddered at the prospect. “Have you any notion of the sorts of things that can happen to a woman under those circumstances?”
“Of course I know. I’m not stupid.”
“No, you’re not, so why didn’t you . . . you . . .” He threw up his hands, a man out of ideas. “Why didn’t you go to your neighbors? Why not the church? Surely the vicar could have provided some assistance.”
“I went to him. There’s no help to be had, and no one has an extra bread crumb or farthing to spare. I explained the situation to you when I came to London.”
“And I have responded to your allegations.” He shook a finger under her nose to emphasize his point. “Why can’t I get through to you? This property is not a charity, and I can’t afford to support malingerers.”
“Such as me and my sisters? Yes, we’ve been such a drain on your coffers.”
“When I gave the orders to Mason, I didn’t mean people like you.”
“Then who did you mean?”
“I meant people who were . . . were . . .” He halted, flummoxed again. “Why am I arguing with you? It’s a waste of breath. You’ll never comprehend my position.”
Despite what he assumed, she comprehended his position all too well.
The estate, and his management of it, was beyond her realm of influence. She’d tried to make a difference, but had been unable to affect any change. At the first sign of resistance from him, her neighbors had buckled to his authority. She wasn’t convinced they truly wanted matters to improve. Perhaps they secretly enjoyed their misery, and they were welcome to it.
She had to cease worrying about everybody else and focus on her own troubles, her chief concern being: What now?
Yes, he’d rescued her from the market. Yes, he’d brought her to the manor, but so what? He’d offered to feed them, then . . . ?
Once they were stabilized and walked out his door, they didn’t even have a house to go back to. It was burned to the ground. Were they to live in
