At every other occasion in her life, Jo had folded before him, but not this time. She ran to the fireplace and grabbed the iron poker. As he lunged for her, she swung it at him.
“If you touch me,” she warned, “I will beat you bloody.”
“You haven’t the temerity for violence,” he blustered, but to her stunned surprise, he took a step back—as if he was afraid of her. His tepid reaction bolstered her courage.
“Where is Emeline?”
He smirked, refusing to say, and she swiped the poker across his desk. Ink pots, brandy glasses, and a tea tray went flying.
The maid rushed in. “Mrs. Merrick? What is it? What’s happened?”
“Get out!” Oscar yelled, and the girl blanched.
“Don’t move,” Jo told her. “Stand here and listen to what your vicar has done to Emeline Wilson and her sisters. He was just about to boast of it.”
“You will not ever mention that harlot’s name in my home again,” he raged.
On hearing the obscene term, Jo and the maid gasped.
“What do you mean?”
“She has disgraced herself with the Earl of Stafford. She has played the whore for him. The entire time he was visiting the estate, she played the whore!”
He shouted the accusation at the top of his lungs. His face was red, the veins in his neck bulging. He could have been the Devil rising up from Hell.
“And the twins?” Jo demanded. “They’re children. What sins have they committed?”
“They have committed no sin. Their sister is a harlot, and thus, an unfit guardian. They have been separated from her custody and control.”
“I don’t believe you about Emeline,” Jo scoffed. “You’re lying, and I’ll see that you pay for it. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll see that you pay.”
“With what currency?”
“You’ll be damned for this,” Jo hurled.
“Not by my God,” he proudly claimed. “I have carried out His work this day. He is pleased with me—His humble servant.”
“You. Are. Mad.”
Pushing by the maid, she stormed out and raced up the stairs. She locked her door, then she paced and paced, trying to devise a plan, to figure out how she could learn Emeline’s whereabouts, how she could muster some help.
The men in the neighborhood were too timid to assist her. They’d been beaten down by events and were too cowardly to rise against Oscar or Benedict Mason. Nor would they participate in any enterprise that might anger the earl. They wouldn’t act without knowing where he stood in the matter.
She thought about Lord Stafford, and she remembered that afternoon out on the lane when she and Emeline had been walking. The Price brothers had ridden up, and sparks had ignited between Emeline and the earl.
Jo had been concerned enough to question Stephen, to wonder if she should have a talk with Emeline.
If the earl had ruined Emeline, then he owed her some support as remuneration. He certainly owed her his protection—whether they had dallied or not. She was one of his tenants, and she’d grown up on his estate. He had to be apprised of the harm his vicar and land agent were perpetrating in his name.
She calmed, realizing she had to get to London as fast as she could. Stephen would know how to find his brother. Stephen would tell her what to do.
Downstairs, a door slammed. She peered out the window to see that her brother had left the house. He had on his hat and coat, and he was heading to the barn to saddle his horse, which meant he’d be gone for hours.
She crawled under her bed and pulled out her portmanteau. Swiftly, she filled it with the bare essentials, then she gazed around, convinced she would never return. It would be awful to forget any significant items, but she owned so little.
Save for a tiny miniature of her exhausted, beleaguered mother, there was nothing she wanted.
She buckled the straps on her bag, then tiptoed down to the front parlor. Oscar kept the Sunday collection money behind a loose brick next to the hearth. He was a lax bookkeeper, and often, months passed without his balancing accounts, without his sending cash on to the bank as was required.
With nary a ripple in her conscience, she removed the brick and took every penny.
She stared up to Heaven and murmured, “Forgive me, Lord, but it’s for a good cause. I’ll pay it back. I promise!”
She spun and hastened away without a word to anyone.
“How about this?”
“No. How many times must I tell you? My brother and I are wearing our uniforms.”
Stephen glared at the fussy, effeminate tailor hired by Lady Veronica’s mother. They were in Nicholas’s London house, in an upstairs salon. The tailor had an armload of formal coats that he wanted Stephen to try on, but Stephen had no intention of consenting.
The ceremony was in three days, so everyone was in a dither. Craftspeople—chefs and the like—had assumed they had the rest of the summer to prepare, but the schedule had been shredded, and Stephen refused to be dragged into the chaos.
He didn’t care about Lady Veronica or the wedding. He most especially didn’t care about the frantic, last-minute arrangements. Nicholas was making the biggest mistake of his life, and he’d regret it forever. Stephen couldn’t persuade him to cry off, and the notion of having Veronica Stewart as his sister-in-law was revolting.
“Your uniforms are inappropriate for the event,” the tailor declared. “They’ll set the wrong tone and interfere with the bride’s coloring.”
“Oh dear,” Stephen sarcastically retorted, “how will she survive it?”
“This one is very stylish.” The man held out a coat and flashed a simpering smile. “Let’s see how it looks on you, shall we?”
“Let’s not and say we did.”
“It’s important to Lady Veronica.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about her.”
The man huffed with indignation but, undaunted, he approached as if he might wrestle Stephen into it. Stephen wasn’t about to have the gay blade put his hands on Stephen’s body, for he was certain the fellow would enjoy it too
