“Should I wait for you?” Mr. Templeton asked, yanking her out of her furious reverie.
“There’s no need,” Emeline said. “Go make your deliveries, then pick me up at four o’clock as we planned.”
“It doesn’t seem as if anyone is at home.”
Emeline studied the mansion. The curtains were drawn. No stable boy had rushed out to greet them. No butler had appeared.
“Someone will be here,” she asserted. “I have an appointment, remember?”
It was a small lie, but she told it anyway. She’d written to the earl three times, requesting an audience, but hadn’t received a reply. Finally, in exasperation, she’d written a fourth time to inform him that she was coming to London—whether he liked it or not.
She couldn’t abide snobbery or conceit, and considering Lord Stafford’s antecedents, why would he exhibit any?
Twelve months ago, he’d simply been a captain in the army. When the old earl had died without any children, it had been a huge shock to learn that title would pass to Nicholas Price. In an instant, he’d gone from being a common soldier to a peer of the realm. What reason had he to act superior?
“You asked for an appointment,” Mr. Templeton counseled, “but that doesn’t mean the earl will keep it. His kind doesn’t have to be courteous.”
“Maybe he should recall that he’s not all that far above us.”
“Oh, Missy, be careful with your disparaging talk. If you’re not here at four o’clock, I’ll likely be searching for you at the local jail.”
“Don’t be silly. He wouldn’t have me . . . jailed merely for speaking out.”
“He’s dined at the palace with the King. That sort of experience tends to alter a fellow. He might do anything to you.”
“He won’t. He’s an officer in the army. He wouldn’t harm an innocent woman.”
“You just never know,” he ominously warned.
“I’ll be fine,” she insisted as a shiver of dread slithered down her spine.
Afraid that her courage might fail her, she leapt to the ground before she could change her mind.
“Good luck,” he said.
“I don’t need any luck,” she boldly retorted. “I have right on my side, and right will always prevail over injustice.”
She marched off, and he clicked the reins, his horses plodding away. As he departed, she felt terribly alone, as if she’d lost her last friend.
She gave in to a moment of weakness, to a moment of doubt, then she straightened with resolve.
“You can do this, you can do this,” she muttered over and over.
There had been a neighborhood meeting, and in a unanimous vote, she’d been elected to present their grievances to Lord Stafford, to seek some relief from Mr. Mason’s oppressive decrees. She would not return to Stafford without garnering concessions from the earl.
She climbed the steps and was about to knock, when suddenly, the door was jerked open.
“It’s about bloody time you arrived,” a man barked. He grabbed her and yanked her inside.
“What?” Emeline stammered, taken off guard by the peculiar welcome.
“You were supposed to be here two hours ago.”
“I was?”
“He’s probably not sober enough to entertain you now. If he’s foxed to the level of incoherence, don’t expect to be paid.”
“Paid for what?” she asked, but he didn’t answer. He stormed off, her wrist clasped tightly in his hand, and she stumbled along behind him.
After being out in the bright sunshine, the vestibule was very dark, and she blinked and blinked, trying to adjust her vision. Before she could get her bearings, she was across the floor and being dragged up the stairs. To slow their progress, she dug in her heels, but the brute who’d accosted her was very large and very irked. She was only five foot five, and she weighed a hundred-twenty pounds. She’d have had more success, attempting to stop a charging bull.
They reached a fancy hallway and started down it. There was a bit more light, and she caught glimpses of a red coat, a dangling lapel, gold buttons. He was wearing a soldier’s uniform, so he had to be one of Lord Stafford’s cohorts.
The earl had inherited the earldom, but he hadn’t resigned his commission in the army, and Emeline hadn’t heard that he intended to.
Evidently, his position in the military was so glamorous that he’d rather continue at it than worry about his responsibilities to the people at Stafford.
The notion made Emeline’s blood boil. Her life, her sisters’ lives, the lives of everyone she knew, were hanging by a thread, but Lord Stafford was totally unconcerned.
“Excuse me.” She fought the man’s strong grip, but couldn’t pry herself loose.
“Excuse me!” she said more sternly, tugging hard and lurching free.
The man halted abruptly, and he appeared the type who might commit violence. She took a hesitant step back.
“What is it?” he snarled.
“I’m . . . I’m . . . here to see Lord Stafford.”
“Well, of course you are. Why else would you be here?” He frowned, scrutinizing her tattered hat, her worn traveling cloak. “We’ve waited all this time, and this is how you’ve dressed yourself? You could be a fussy governess.”
“What’s wrong with being a governess? I’m not hoping to impress with my attire.”
“You’re not? For pity’s sake, don’t you know anything about men and what they like?”
At his insults, her temper sizzled. She couldn’t help it if she was poor, if she was a week away from being tossed out on the road by Mr. Mason. Through no fault of her own, she was in dire financial straits, and she wouldn’t grovel or apologize for her reduced condition.
“Of all the rude, uncivil, offensive—”
He blew out an aggravated breath. “What kind of girls is Mrs. Bainbridge hiring these days? She’s aware of his preferences; he won’t like you.”
“Why not?” she sneered.
“Because you’re a frump—”
“A frump!” she huffed.
“—and you’re too skinny. And you’re blond. He hates blonds. Mrs. Bainbridge has
