by Cheryl Holt
An awkward moment ensued, with Nicholas trying to intimidate her, but having no effect. Though she was a tiny sprite, her disdain made him feel petty and pathetic.
She had the biggest, prettiest green eyes, and they bored into him, delving straight to the center of his cold, black heart. Under her intense scrutiny, he lurched away.
She was the first and only tenant he’d met from Stafford. What did she want? More importantly, what stories would she tell when she returned to the country?
While he detested the estate, he had his pride. In London, he was working hard to offend, but—oddly—he was incensed at the notion of having his character sullied at rural, provincial Stafford.
He whipped around and stormed outside. Wrath wafted off him like a cloud, yet she was unfazed and unafraid. On noting her fearlessness, he became even more angry.
Didn’t she understand how powerful he was? Didn’t she realize how he could crush her? How he could ruin her family? With the stroke of a pen, he could beggar her, could have her jailed or hanged or transported.
He never would, but still!
“Miss Wilson,” he growled as he approached, “why are you loitering in my driveway?”
“We had an appointment at two o’clock.” She flashed what—if he’d been a more superstitious fellow—appeared to be the evil eye. “It’s almost three. You’re late.”
“We do not have an appointment.”
“Yes, we do.”
“In order to have an appointment, both parties must agree to the meeting. I’ve been abundantly clear that I have absolutely no desire to speak with you.”
“You have not been ‘abundantly clear’. You’ve been rude and juvenile. I’ve written you four times, and you never replied.”
“Has it occurred to you that there is a reason I didn’t reply?”
“Well, of course it has: You’re a discourteous boor, but you’re behaving like a child. You’re Lord Stafford now”—she pronounced the word Lord as if it were an epithet—“and you can’t shirk your responsibilities. There are too many people counting on you.”
A muscle ticked in his cheek.
She was very short. Her head came up to the middle of his chest, and she was so thin, a stiff wind would blow her over. But there was an aura about her—of righteousness and rectitude—that made her seem much larger than she was.
She was a veritable ball of umbrage, rippling with indignation over his conduct—and she didn’t even know him. If they ever had the misfortune to be better acquainted, she’d never survive the affronts she’d suffer at his behest.
After his parents’ deaths, he’d had to care for his brother, so he’d grown up very fast. He’d bluffed and blundered his way to adulthood, and even before being named earl, he’d been spoiled and impossible.
He never did what he didn’t wish to do, and he never took advice or listened to complaints—particularly complaints from women.
He endured their company for one thing and one thing only, that being sexual congress. He loved their shapely mouths, but he felt they should be used for a deed other than talking.
Out on the street, an open barouche rattled by. It was filled with young ladies going for a ride in the park. They saw him and waved, calling out flirtatious hellos.
He supposed he was a peculiar sight, dawdling as he was and arguing with the diminutive shrew. He didn’t like the image it created: of himself being chastised and not in control of the conversation.
He yanked his furious gaze to Miss Wilson.
“You!” He pointed a condemning finger. “Inside. Now.”
“With how you’ve treated me,” she snottily said, “I don’t know if I should—”
“Miss Wilson, you’ve demanded a meeting, and you’re about to get it.” He bowed mockingly and gestured to the door. “After you.”
She studied him, then relented—as he could have predicted she would. He was a master at issuing commands and having them obeyed. Her pert nose thrust up in the air, she marched by him. She smirked with triumph, but he’d drum it out of her soon enough.
He herded her to his library and indicated the chair where she was to sit. Then he went around to his seat behind the desk.
Stephen was lurking over by the window, having watched their pitiful escapade in the driveway. He raised a curious brow, as if to ask if Nicholas was insane, and Nicholas decided he probably was. A brief hour in the irritating woman’s presence and he was stark raving mad.
“Miss Wilson”—he tossed a thumb toward Stephen—“may I introduce my brother, Stephen Price?”
“I’ve already had the displeasure of making his acquaintance.”
Ignoring the barb, Stephen was overly polite. “Hello, Miss Wilson.”
“She is here,” Nicholas said, “to . . . to . . .”
He stopped, having no idea what she wanted. He’d never bothered to read her letters.
“Why precisely are you here?” he inquired.
“I’ve come on behalf of the tenants and villagers who have been affected by the deteriorating conditions at Stafford.”
“Stafford is fine.”
“You’ve never been there. How would you know?”
He actually had been there once. Shortly after his parents’ funeral, a kindly minister had tracked down his relatives, had written to them to request assistance, but he’d never received an answer. He’d then paid for coach fare, had accompanied Nicholas and Stephen to Stafford, wrongly presuming that the family would relent and welcome two orphaned boys.
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 thir
ty 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 her criticisms had him jerking to attention.
“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. T
hey 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.