How dare they snub him! How dare they rebel!
From the moment Emeline had disappeared, there had been grumbling and complaints. His very own maid, who’d witnessed his quarrel with Josephine, had blabbed hither and yon about what she’d heard. He’d fired her for insubordination, but it had only fueled the flames of rumor and innuendo.
It was another sin to lay at Emeline’s feet, and the next time he saw Josephine, he’d tell her so—in no uncertain terms.
Where was his sister anyway? Without a hint as to her intentions, she’d packed a bag and left. When she came crawling back, begging for shelter, she’d learn her lesson once and for all.
He snapped his Bible closed, and the sound echoed off the empty seats, underscoring how ridiculously people were behaving. Would they risk their immortal souls over the likes of Emeline? He thought not.
“Let us pray!” he repeated more petulantly, but not a single head bowed in deference. He glowered, but they refused to be cowed.
“As you decline to join in,” he fumed, “I shall skip forward to deliver my sermon. Obviously, all of you could benefit from a stern administration of the truth.”
Silence and sneers greeted him. One man yawned.
“Today, I will address several topics, including respect for authority, respect for the Church, respect for—”
“Where is Emeline Wilson?”
The interruption was the last straw. They weren’t in a tavern where patrons could shout and bicker.
“Who said that?” he bellowed.
Old Mr. Templeton stood. “What have you and Mason done with her?”
“We are in God’s house”—Oscar pounded his fist on the podium—“and you will not utter that harlot’s name under His roof!”
At his spewing the horrid term, there were gasps, and Templeton was undaunted.
“I know Emeline was many things, but she wasn’t that. I don’t care what lies you tell.”
“We are not in a collegiate debating society,” Oscar haughtily scolded. “This is a religious service. If you can’t listen and absorb the Holy Word, then I insist you leave.”
“While we’re at it,” another oaf butted in, “where’s your sister? Ain’t nobody seen her since your maid stumbled on you beating her bloody in the vicarage.”
“Beating her?” Oscar’s voice was shrill.
Was that the story that had spread? How was he to counter it? They might well have asked when he’d quit beating his dog. He couldn’t mount a defense.
“I’ve not laid a hand on my sister,” he declared, “despite how thoroughly she deserved a good whipping.”
“Where is she then?” Mr. Templeton demanded. “What are you hiding?”
“You doubt me?” Oscar thundered. “Me? I am your moral compass. You will not impugn my integrity.”
“If you don’t start giving me some straight answers,” Templeton retorted, “I’m going to London to fetch the earl to Stafford. He’ll be extremely interested in your activities.”
On his mentioning Lord Stafford, Oscar blanched. He and Mason couldn’t have the disreputable scoundrel apprised of their exploits. Nicholas Price was volatile and dangerous, and Mason had maintained that he was fond of Emeline. If she’d been harmed, there was no predicting how he might retaliate.
The doors at the rear of the church slammed open, sunlight streaming in, and a large man was silhouetted in the threshold. Oscar squinted, trying to see who it was. He couldn’t abide tardiness, and his parishioners knew better than to arrive late.
“You there!” Oscar called. “The service is already in progress. Come in or depart.”
There was a long, tense pause, then the fellow said, “I believe I’ll come in.”
He marched through the vestibule, a second man tromping in behind him. They entered the church proper, and as they materialized out of the shadows—gad, Nicholas and Stephen Price!—Oscar gulped with dismay.
“Lord Stafford,” he weakly rasped, “I thought you were in London.”
“It seems I’ve returned.”
“How kind of you to grace us with your presence.”
“Isn’t it though?”
The blackguard studied the rows of vacant seats.
“It’s a bit quiet this morning, Vicar,” he pointed out.
“There’s an influenza going around,” Oscar fibbed. “People are ill.”
“Are they?”
The earl snorted, then arrogantly strode down the aisle. He sat in the front pew to Oscar’s right. His brother sat in the pew to Oscar’s left. They both slouched, their legs stretched out, ankles crossed.
Their disrespect was infuriating, and Oscar was about to remark when Mr. Templeton asked, “Lord Stafford, may I speak?”
“In a moment, Mr. Templeton. Your esteemed vicar is in the middle of his sermon. I’d like to hear the topic.”
Oscar gnawed on his cheek. He’d been discussing Emeline Wilson. Since the earl had been complicit in her ruination, he was equally guilty of moral turpitude. Whatever castigation was flung at Emeline, the earl warranted the same rebuke.
Didn’t he?
To Oscar’s great shame, he hesitated.
Nicholas Price wouldn’t appreciate being scolded. Yet Oscar was the earl’s spiritual leader. If he didn’t urge the earl onto a virtuous path, who would?
Still, there was Oscar’s job to consider. And the vicarage, and his salary, and his fine clothes, and his delicious dinners. Only a fool would risk so much.
“Well, Vicar,” the earl taunted, “I’m waiting. Get on with it before I fall asleep.”
Lord Stafford stared up at him, his blue eyes filled with contempt for all that Oscar was and all that he represented. There was a challenge in his gaze, and Oscar was determined to quash it.
“I was preaching of harlots,” Oscar intoned, not flinching.
“Were you?”
“I was explaining the damage a corrupt woman can inflict on a man’s soul. The siren’s song can lure a man to his doom.”
“Those sirens don’t have to do much luring.” The earl smirked. “Most men walk to their doom without any coaxing at all.”
His levity was maddening, and Oscar would not be mocked. His temper soared.
“Will you confess your sins, Lord Stafford?” Oscar roared. “Will you admit your depravity and seek the Lord’s forgiveness?”
“I’d rather not,” he snidely replied. “Let’s talk about Emeline Wilson instead.”
“You will not speak of that whore in my church!”
Quick as lightning, the earl was on
