“Let me talk to the vicar.” He and Blair had to get their stories straight, and Blair might be able to spread the word about Nicholas Price slaying Sheriff Pratt.
“Haven’t you heard?” the earl asked. “Blair is under arrest too.”
Benedict gasped. “For what?”
“For murdering his sister.”
“Josephine? You’re claiming he murdered Josephine?”
“I’m not claiming it. I’m flat-out saying it’s true.”
“That’s insane.”
“Yes, it is, but then, in my opinion, the vicar was never playing with a full deck.”
Benedict was perplexed by the news. Blair wasn’t a killer. He was too much of a coward. He hired others to do his dirty work.
“You’ll never make me believe it,” Benedict scoffed.
“Believe it or no, I don’t care. He’s been a sorry prisoner, and unfortunately for you, an even worse conspirator.”
“What do you mean?”
“As far as allies go, you picked a bad one. He’s spilled his guts about you and your crimes.”
“He couldn’t have told you anything,” Benedict blustered, “for there’s nothing to tell.”
“I have men riding to London to fetch the twins home from that orphanage.”
“Dammit!”
“And once Emeline is feeling better, we’ll have much more evidence against you. Are you aware of the penalty for kidnapping, attempted rape, and attempted murder?”
Emeline, Emeline, Emeline . . . If Benedict never heard her name again, it would be too soon!
He remembered how his fingers had circled her throat, the way her face had reddened as he’d strangled her. If he had any regrets, it was that he hadn’t had time to finish what he’d started.
“She’s a whore!” Benedict blurted like a fool. “She was asking for it.”
In an instant, Lord Stafford leapt around the desk and loomed over Benedict. He grabbed Benedict by the shoulder, pushing a thumb into Benedict’s wound.
Benedict howled in agony, as the earl leaned down and warned, “If you ever speak of her again, if she ever so much as crosses your filthy little mind, I will kill you.”
The earl stepped away, and he sat, unruffled and composed, while Benedict tried to focus, tried to stay conscious through the pain.
Vaguely, he realized that the library door had opened, and the earl’s brother was standing with the earl. He had a stack of papers that he arranged on the desktop.
The earl perused them, then he glanced at Benedict, his loathing so blatant that Benedict blanched.
“Tell me how much money you stole from me,” the earl commanded.
“I stole nothing,” Benedict contended.
“I’m guessing it’s thousands of pounds,” his brother said. “He took money, but he also quietly sold your possessions and crops.”
“Mr. Mason,” the earl snidely mocked, “you always pretended to be so ethical.”
“I found his bank books,” Lt. Price said, “so we’ll be able to recover most of it.”
“Lucky for him,” the earl retorted, “or I might have had to shoot him again to gain some satisfaction.”
Benedict squirmed in his chair. He wanted to lie down and sleep for a week. He wanted to see a doctor. He wanted a kind nurse to hold his hand, dab a cool cloth on his brow, and murmur to him that he’d be all right.
“How should we deal with you, Mason?” the earl asked. “I’m curious as to your opinion.”
“Everything I did,” Benedict argued, “I did for you. To save your estate. To make you richer.”
“You committed fraud, you embezzled and swindled and deceived, and you did it for me?”
When the earl put it that way, it didn’t sound quite so marvelous. Benedict studied him, wondering—as he often had in the prior year—how such a low-born scoundrel could rise so high, how he could be hailed as Benedict’s lord and master.
“I didn’t know you could read,” Benedict complained, “let alone add and subtract.”
“It’s the curse of modern-day England,” the earl said. “Even orphans can be taught a thing or two.”
“What will happen to me?” Benedict inquired, terrified over his fate. If Pratt was dead and Blair under arrest, what hope had Benedict of an equitable outcome?
“I’m giving you two choices,” the earl responded. “I don’t care which you pick.”
“What are they?”
“Choice number one: You may remain here, and I hang you at dawn.”
“I haven’t had a trial!”
“So? Who will stop me? Sheriff Pratt?”
They engaged in a staring match that Benedict couldn’t win.
“Or?” he asked. “I have two choices. What is the other?”
“You can be transported to Australia on the ship that was meant for Emeline Wilson. Her spot has suddenly become available.”
“But I’m not feeling well! My wound is infected. I’ll die on the trip!”
“Perhaps, but you’ll die here for sure. At dawn.”
Benedict slumped in his seat, his mind awhirl with fury and regret.
It had been such a simple plan: be shed of Emeline once and for all. Bring calm and sanity to the estate. How had it all gone so wrong?
“Don’t make me leave,” he begged. “Stafford is my home now.”
Lt. Price glanced at his brother. “Those are probably the very words Miss Wilson used when she pleaded with Mason not to be sent away.”
“I’m certain they are,” the earl agreed. “What’s it to be, Mason. Will I hang you in the morning? Or will you scurry away like the rat you are?”
Benedict fumed and fretted, anxious to ease the earl’s wrath, but it seemed impossible. Ultimately, he moaned, “I’ll take my chances on the high seas.”
“A wise decision.” The earl stood, as if passing sentence. “Don’t ever return. If I learn you’ve somehow slithered back to England, I’ll hunt you down and rid the kingdom of your vile presence.” He peered at his brother. “Get him out of my sight.”
Lt. Price grabbed Benedict by the arm and yanked him to his feet. The abrupt motion wrenched at his wound, and he shrieked in anguish. The earl watched—stoic and indifferent—as Benedict was dragged from the room.
Nicholas knocked on the door to Emeline’s bedchamber. He was extremely nervous, but trying not to show it.
Since he’d rescued her a week earlier, he’d rarely seen her. He’d been too busy, tamping
