To Nicholas’s undying mortification, they’d been detained at the gate and denied entrance, as if they were beggars pleading for scraps.
He’d never forgotten how he’d felt that day, had never forgotten the shame and embarrassment of being disavowed. As they’d trudged back to London, he’d sworn he would make something of himself, that they’d be sorry for how they’d shunned him.
Finally, he’d been elevated above them all, just as he’d often envisioned, but to his consternation, he garnered no satisfaction from the outcome.
He’d never returned to Stafford, and he never would.
“I don’t need to visit Stafford,” he informed Miss Wilson. “I have hired Mr. Mason to manage the property for me. He’s had extensive experience, and he sends me regular reports.”
“If he’s telling you all is well, then he’s lying.”
“Miss Wilson”—Nicholas struggled to control his temper—“I realize that you have some bee in your bonnet, and it’s left you cantankerous, but—”
“Don’t you dare belittle me or my complaint.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he sarcastically said, because of course he was.
He didn’t like bossy females, and he didn’t think they had any reason to conduct business. Why was she a miss anyway? Why wasn’t she at her home in Stafford, tending the hearth fires and chasing after her dozen children?
Obviously, with that disagreeable attitude and sass, no man would have her.
“You’re being deliberately condescending,” she charged. “Is it just me you don’t like? Or do you treat everyone this way?”
Her impertinent remark stirred Stephen’s ire. “Miss Wilson, you have some nerve, insulting the earl. We don’t have to put up with it.”
“You don’t scare me,” she blithely responded, “and I’m not afraid of either of you.”
Stephen looked as if he might determine if her boast was true, as if he might march over, pick her up, and throw her out again. Nicholas didn’t want any bickering. He had to let her state her case, for he was quite sure that if he didn’t, she would become a squatter on his stoop.
He held up a hand, urging Stephen to restraint.
“Miss Wilson,” Nicholas asked, “what is your position at Stafford?”
“My father was the school teacher for thirty years.”
“A school! How very modern.”
“Yes, it was. The old countess was very devoted to the project.”
“What is your father doing now?”
“He’s deceased.”
“Oh. And you? You seem like a very . . . ah . . . bright individual. Have you taken over his post?”
“No.” She glared as if he was stupid. “You had the school closed, remember? You claimed you wouldn’t waste your money teaching the offspring of peasants.”
“I said that?”
“Yes.”
“Oh,” he mumbled again.
He recollected no such decision and no such comment. He himself had been educated at the very progressive orphanage where he and Stephen had been reared. He was a great believer that everyone should learn to read and write.
Would he have closed the school in such a haughty manner? He was disturbed that she might be raising a point he didn’t wish to hear.
“Continue,” he demanded, wanting her to finish her harangue, then go away.
“I’m presenting our grievances.”
“Your grievances?” He oozed skepticism.
“Yes. We have many.”
“Who is we?”
“I told you: the entire village, plus the tenants and the servants at the manor.”
“The entire village? All the tenants and servants?”
“Yes.”
“So you’re some sort of . . . spokeswoman for the whole town?”
“Yes.”
She was sitting very still, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap. A ray of sunlight was cast across her, making her golden hair glow. She looked placid and serene, but filled with energy, a Joan of Arc, without fear and ready for battle.
The strangest sensation slithered through him, that by her arrival, their fates had been twined together. A frisson of dread wended down his spine. He didn’t want their fates connected; he didn’t want anything to do with her at all.
“Why would they choose you?” he snidely asked.
“Because I know right from wrong.”
“There is no wrong occurring at Stafford.”
“Mr. Mason is a cruel bully.”
“He is not,” Nicholas insisted without reflecting.
He wasn’t overly familiar with Mr. Mason. The man had impeccable references, and during their sole interview, he had proved himself knowledgeable and competent.
The old earl had been a gambler, not a farmer. Nicholas had inherited a place careening toward bankruptcy, with too many employees, too few crops harvested, too few animals sent to market, and not enough income generated.
Mason’s mandate was clear: Get the accounts into the black. The large property wasn’t a charity, and Nicholas couldn’t treat it like one. People at the estate had to be essential to its financial survival or they had to go.
“Since you’ve never been to Stafford,” Miss Wilson taunted, “how would you know if Mr. Mason is cruel or not?”
“I don’t need to be there. As I mentioned, I receive full reports.”
“I’m here to give you a different view.”
“And I’ve been more than patient in listening to it.”
He stood, indicating the meeting was over and she should leave, but she was very obstinate and she didn’t move. Instead, she began citing a list of transgressions, and short of walking over and clapping a palm over her mouth, he had no idea how to make her shut up.
She described a parade of outrages: a widow with six children tossed out on the road; elderly servants fired without pensions; the park closed to hunting so tenants couldn’t stock their larders with meat as they always had in the past.
She hurled words like famine and starvation and catastrophe. Surely the situation couldn’t be that bad?
Could it?
The longer she talked, the more animated she became. Her cheeks flushed a fetching pink, her eyes blazed with moral fervor. She was pretty and vibrant and persuasive, a martyr on a mission, a savior bent on success.
He was starting to feel ashamed, starting to regret that he was such a sorry excuse for a landlord, when one of
