“What was that?” he asked. “Repeat your last sentence.”
“If you don’t rein in Mr. Mason, I’ve been authorized to inform you that we’ll strike.”
She grinned, as if they’d been playing cards and she’d drawn an ace.
“You’ll . . . strike?”
“Yes.”
“In what fashion?”
“The tenants will plant no crops, so you’ll have no income.”
“Then they will have no food to see their families through the winter.”
“You’ve pushed them to the brink. They’re willing to risk it.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
His temper exploded.
He’d thought she was a harmless scold, that she would merely reprimand him as if she were his nanny or tutor. He’d planned to humor her, then send her on her way, ignored and forgotten the instant she was out the door.
Due to her small size and her female gender, he hadn’t recognized the danger she posed. She was a bloody menace, a radical troublemaker who idiotically assumed she could thwart him with her foolishness.
She’d intruded into his home, had disturbed his peace and quiet, had insulted and offended, and now had threatened.
What sort of revolutionaries was he harboring at Stafford? What sort of mischief was fomenting?
He wondered about Mr. Mason. Did Mason know about the tenants’ plotting? Was he aware that Miss Wilson was in London at their instigation and behest?
Nicholas would brook no rebellion. If Miss Wilson and her cohorts believed he would, she was insane.
He had spent a goodly share of his life commanding men. He’d learned how to mold them, how to coerce them, how to lead them. Miss Wilson presumed she’d bested him, that he would meet her demands rather than suffer the indignity of a mutiny.
My, wasn’t she in for a surprise!
“Thank you for your stirring presentation,” he mildly said. “Your concerns have been noted, and I will take them under advisement. You may go.”
She frowned. She’d expected theatrics, shouting or denials of guilt, so his calm dismissal confused her.
“That’s it?” she asked. “That’s all you have to say?”
“Yes.”
“But if they don’t plant any crops, you’ll be bankrupt.”
“I certainly will be.”
“You’re not worried?”
“Oh, I’m worried, Miss Wilson, but not in the manner you suppose. Please rush to Stafford and notify your cabal that I shall personally arrive on Wednesday to investigate their complaints.”
“You’ll visit the estate?”
“Yes.”
“You mean it? You’re not jesting.”
“Trust me, Miss Wilson, I never jest.”
His easy capitulation had her perplexed. He’d called her bluff, had given her what she wanted, and she was afraid it was a trick. And it was. He would travel to Stafford, but he would never forgive her for forcing him to make the journey.
“Well then”—she stumbled to her feet—“I appreciate your time. I’ll see you on Wednesday.”
“You definitely will.”
“You won’t regret this.”
“I already do.”
Stephen ushered her out, and Nicholas listened, breathing a sigh of relief as the front door was shut behind her.
He went to the window and watched her walk to the street. As Stephen returned, a teamster’s wagon pulled up, an older man at the reins. Miss Wilson climbed aboard, and they lumbered off. She was chattering a mile a minute, apparently regaling him with her success. They disappeared from view, and Nicholas spun around.
“What in the hell are you up to?” Stephen inquired.
“I can’t let that little termagant provoke an insurgency, can I?”
“No, you can’t. Her bravado is galling.”
“Yes, it is.”
“So . . . we’re finally going to Stafford?”
“We finally are,” Nicholas fumed, “and Miss Wilson will be very, very sorry that she asked me to come.”
“What do you think is happening in there?”
“We’ll know soon enough.”
Emeline heard the men grumbling behind her, and she spun and flashed a confident smile.
“Lord Stafford is here to set things right,” she insisted.
“According to you.”
“Yes, according to me. He promised he’d come on Wednesday, and he has. He’ll straighten out this mess.”
“Not bloody likely,” someone mumbled, and another said, “Mr. Mason’s in there with him—alone—telling tales. He’ll punish us further. Just see if he doesn’t.”
Emeline ignored them and studied the manor. They were in the driveway, Emeline at the front of the crowd, with old Mr. Templeton beside her. There were dozens of people hovering, all of the tenant farmers, most of their wives, many of the shopkeepers and tradesmen from the village.
No one was sure when Lord Stafford and his brother had arrived at the estate. Eight o’clock that morning, word had spread that they were present and sequestered in the library with Mr. Mason. Everyone had raced to discover what was occurring and what the result would be once the earl emerged from the meeting.
Emeline’s trip to London was the talk of the neighborhood. Lord Stafford was viewed as a rogue and an ingrate, and it was commonly assumed that he’d duped Emeline, that he’d never show his face where he was so thoroughly despised.
Emeline herself had been a tad skeptical. Yet he’d traveled to Stafford as he’d agreed he would. At that very moment, he was inside and conferring with his land agent. She was an optimist and always had been, and she refused to accept that he had come with malicious intent.
If she was anxious, it was only because he’d spoken with Mr. Mason before anybody else. Mason was such a convincing liar, and he would distort the facts so he looked reasonable and they looked like recalcitrant complainers.
Emeline would have to counter whatever falsehoods Mason told, and she was certain the earl would heed her. Contrary to the despicable reports that had drifted to Stafford, he had a conscience, and she would play on his sympathies—regardless of how deeply buried those sympathies might be.
They had forged a bond, and they were allies, both wanting what was best for Stafford. Together, they would move the estate in a new direction. Mr. Mason would be restrained and lives would vastly improve.
She had to believe it. It was too depressing to consider any other conclusion.
The door opened, and Emeline could feel the tension rise.
She turned and urged, “Remember: Stay strong. We’ve issued our demands, and we’ve warned of a strike. We have to let the earl know we’re serious.”
“Mr. Mason
