She panicked. Did she really intend to not see him again? It was too sad to imagine.
Frantically, stupidly, she was ready to rush back in, to snuggle herself on his lap and tell him she hadn’t meant any of it. But she couldn’t. By its very nature, an illicit liaison was a recipe for disaster, and she hadn’t the detachment required to pull it off.
She would hope for his continued kindness and compassion. She would pray that she hadn’t misjudged him and that he would assist her in the end, but she couldn’t seek more.
She trudged down the hall, all the while wishing that he would call to her, that they might have a different conclusion, but silence dogged her every step.
Benedict Mason rode up the lane toward the manor. After meeting with Nicholas Price the previous afternoon, he’d been in a foul mood so he’d fled for a few hours. He couldn’t have gossip spreading that he was no longer in charge or that his prior actions were being reversed, but he wasn’t certain how to regain his advantage.
Emeline Wilson and her sisters had been moved into the mansion. Evictions and other cost-saving measures were on hold. Nicholas and Stephen Price hadn’t left.
It was annoying, having them underfoot and undermining his decisions. And he was most especially unnerved by their examining the account ledgers. Not that he thought either brother was particularly literate. They’d been raised in an orphanage, so he doubted they could add and subtract.
Yet it couldn’t hurt to be cautious, and Benedict was nothing if not wary.
Up ahead, he saw Widow Brookhurst. She was carrying a large package. He approached, hailed her, and reined in.
“Good day, Mrs. Brookhurst,” he said.
“Mr. Mason.”
“What have you there? Is it a parcel for the housekeeper? I’m happy to take it the rest of the way for you.”
Benedict had assumed it was mended tablecloths or some such, so he was stunned when she replied, “It’s not for the housekeeper. It’s for Emeline Wilson.”
Miss Wilson was destitute. How had she bought anything?
“Really? What has she purchased?”
“She hasn’t. It’s a gift from the earl.”
“What did you say?”
“He sent his brother to my shop early this morning with an order for a wardrobe of clothes.” She hefted the bundle. “This is the first installment.”
“An entire wardrobe?”
“Yes.”
“What have you provided?”
“Three dresses and some undergarments.”
“Undergarments!”
“There’s more coming from London too. For her and her sisters.”
Benedict kept his expression blank, but his mind raced with speculation. As for the widow, she looked eager to spill all, and Benedict wasn’t about to discourage her.
“Why would the earl buy her clothes?” he asked. “Did his brother divulge the reason?”
“No, and it’s not my place to comment, but . . .”
“Comment away. Your opinion is safe with me.”
She frowned. “I wouldn’t want my remarks getting back to the earl. I’d hate to upset him or to have him presuming I’m not grateful for his favor.”
“You have my word. I won’t tell a soul.”
She studied him, her distrust obvious, but she was too keen to tattle. “I can’t fathom why Miss Wilson would receive such a boon.”
“Neither can I.”
“It’s not any of my business how the earl chooses to spend his fortune. I recognize that. Still, I’m asking myself why he’d spend some of it in this fashion.”
“It’s a valid question.”
“It couldn’t have been free, with no strings attached. What did she do for him? Or what did she agree to do in the future? I can’t come to a good answer. Can you?”
“No, I can’t.” Benedict reached out a hand. “Give me the package. I’ll have it delivered for you.”
She lifted it up. “Thank you. Saves me the trouble.”
“You’re welcome.” She started off, and he called, “Widow Brookhurst?”
“Yes?”
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this conversation to anyone.”
“Believe me, I won’t. I’d rather not know about any of this. I always liked her parents. Her mother must be rolling in her grave.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he murmured as she continued on.
He proceeded to the manor, the illicit parcel balanced on his saddle, as he methodically reviewed the situation.
Had Emeline played the whore for Captain Price? Was she that low of character? Would she abandon her morals for a handsome face and a fat purse?
Benedict had proposed an honorable courtship to Emeline, with marriage as the goal at the end, but she’d spurned him.
Had she now surrendered her virginity for a few paltry trifles?
If so, she wouldn’t be the first female in history to trade chastity for security. At the notion that she might have—that she had indecently granted to Nicholas Price what Benedict had decently sought—he rippled with outrage.
He would watch and listen. He would spy and investigate. If he ultimately learned that Mrs. Brookhurst’s suspicions were true, he didn’t know what he might do.
But Emeline would be very, very sorry.
“I don’t know what will happen now.”
“What would you like to have happen?”
Josephine glanced over at Emeline. They had finally crossed paths in the village, and Jo was walking her to the manor. She should have been returning home, but after Oscar’s recent outburst, she was extremely distraught and in no hurry.
Emeline looked healthier than she had in ages. Her cheeks were rosy with color, her hair clean and shiny. She was wearing a new dress, sewn from a flowery print that brought out the emerald in her eyes.
It was a beautiful afternoon. The sky was so blue, the woods so green, the birds singing in the trees. She was happy to be chatting with a friend, but wished she had more opportunity to become better acquainted. Oscar kept her so confined, and she was never allowed to socialize.
She’d like to unburden herself to a confidante, would like to seek advice about her affair with Lt. Price, about her problems with her brother. But she never would. Some things were meant to be private, and certainly an illicit liaison and
