“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
