My Scoundrel

by Cheryl Holt

  When the villagers had persuaded her to go to London, the vicar had vociferously counseled against it. He’d insisted she was on a fool’s errand and shouldn’t get involved. How she hated to admit that he’d been correct!

  “I was just trying to help everyone,” she said.

  “And look where it’s landed you,” he scornfully admonished.

  “The earl should have behaved better toward all of us. I didn’t mind begging him.”

  “Of course you didn’t. You’re a woman. You would do any ridiculous thing.”

  “Is there any aid the church could give us?”

  “You’re not the only family that is struggling. We have no relief funds in our coffers. They’ve been long spent.”

  “With a reference from you, we could find a place to stay. We’re not afraid to work for our bed and board.”

  “Who would take you in? You bothered and insulted the new earl. Who would be willing to incur his wrath if he learned they were sheltering you?”

  He pushed by them, and Emeline was too beaten down to be angry. He was a pompous blowhard, and his comments had been no more than she’d expected.

  Jo came up and hugged Emeline. Furtively, she slipped some coins into Emeline’s hand.

  “Talk to the blacksmith,” she whispered. “He might let you sleep next to his forge for a few nights. At least you’d be warm.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  “And there’s a penury line forming on the other side of the square.”

  It was a spot where the most wretched citizens could wait, hoping for a job or scraps of food. Anyone with any skills already had a position. It was only those with no abilities—or renowned drunkards and lunatics—who embarrassed themselves in such a fashion.

  “Are there any employers?”

  “Some. There’s a man who claims he’s taking people to London, that he’s sending them on to America for indenture.”

  Emeline shuddered. Was that to be their fate? The prospect of death and disease on the long sea voyage? Then auctioned off for a lifetime of servitude?

  “There’s always the poorhouse as a last resort,” Jo said. “Don’t be too proud to go there. Not if it means your sisters will have a roof over their heads.”

  “Oh, Jo . . .”

  At the thought of winding up in the filthy, rat-infested place, Emeline’s eyes filled with tears. How could this be her conclusion? She’d been so sure she could orchestrate a different ending.

  Vicar Blair noticed that Jo wasn’t following him. He spun around and called, “Josephine! Come!”

  She hugged Emeline again and murmured, “Be strong.”

  “I will.”

  Emeline proceeded to the square, to the line for hungry beggars. She was now a beggar herself, so there was no reason not to stand with them. Perhaps she’d finally stumble on the luck that had proved so elusive.

  She didn’t dare imagine any other outcome.

  “Where have you been?” Nicholas fumed. “I wanted to leave two hours ago.”

  “I have something to tell you,” Stephen said.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m not going back to London with you.”

  “You’re not what?”

  “I’m not going. I’ll join you in six weeks when our furlough is over.”

  Nicholas stared at his brother as if he was babbling in a foreign language.

  “You’re staying behind?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I like it here.”

  “Here?” Nicholas snorted with disgust, as if they were discussing Hades rather than a wealthy, beautiful estate in the heart of England.

  “Yes, here.”

  “You’re mad.” Nicholas studied him, wondering if he was ill. “What is wrong with you?”

  “There’s nothing wrong. I just don’t care for London; you know that. I hate your filthy house and the drinking and the parties and the women. I hate living like barbarians, and I detest all the miscreants who have glommed onto you merely because you’re an earl.”

  “Lady Veronica’s father is holding an engagement supper for us, and I want you there. Don’t force me to socialize with them on my own.”

  “I hate Veronica and her father most of all. You’re crazy, betrothing yourself to her.”

  “You’re just jealous,” Nicholas charged.

  “Oh, spare me.”

  “I was able to pick the richest girl in the world to be my wife. You can’t stand it.”

  “She’s an immature snob. I can’t abide her, and you’ll be sorry forever.”

  “I doubt it.” Nicholas whipped away and mounted his horse. “Could you at least accompany me into the village? It’s market day. I told Mason I’d show myself.”

  “If you’re never coming back, what’s the point?”

  “People need to see that I’m real and not a phantom. They need to see my face and look me in the eye.”

  “So you can scare the hell out of them?”

  “Yes. If another troublemaker like Miss Wilson steps forward, they have to know with whom they’re dealing. I can’t have them trying to thwart Mason.”

  “I suppose I can ride in with you, but it will be to meet the neighbors and merchants. I’m not about to help you frighten anyone.”

  “You’re too, too good,” Nicholas sarcastically cooed.

  “Shut up.”

  Nicholas cooled his heels while Stephen’s horse was saddled. They trotted off together, side by side, down the lane that led from the manor. It was a perfect spring morning, with summer just around the corner, and the estate could have been a fairyland.

  If he’d been a more romantic sort of fellow, he might have paused to enjoy the bounty, might have counted his blessings and reveled in the fact that such a magical spot was his. But he wasn’t a romantic fellow, and he refused to take any pleasure in his surroundings.

  Let Stephen wallow in the boring, despised splendor. Nicholas was off to London where a rich bachelor could spend his time at more fruitful, satisfying endeavors.

  The market was being held in the square, and he skirted the edge, not bothering to dismount. With how his tenants had treated Emeline Wilson, he had no desire to speak with any of them. Stephen could do it after Nicholas had departed. His brother was a much better ambassador.

  They reached the rear of the assemblage, and Nicholas noticed that he’d slowed considerably. He and Stephen had rarely been separated, and he couldn’t bear for them to split up. Clearly, he was making their final minutes last a little longer.

  He might have uttered some ridiculous, maudlin comment, but the strangest sight caught his attention. He reined in so abruptly that his horse snorted in protest.

  Miss Wilson and her sisters were leaned against the wall of a building in the company of what appeared to be a group of criminals and rag pickers. She had stuffed pillowcases setting at her feet, and she carried a tattered satchel that was so packed the buckles were straining.

  A man circled her, assessing her as if she were a slave about to be purchased.

  Was she selling herself? For what reason? Was the woman insane?

  Yes, rang the reply in his head. She was insane. He knew that about her. She had a knack for getting herself into trouble like no other person he’d ever met.

  “What in the hell are you up to now?” he blurted without thinking.

  Miss Wilson flinched as if he’d struck her, and he leapt down and marched over.

  “Did you hear me?” he seethed. “What are you up to?”

  “Where did you come from?” she feebly said. “I thought you’d already left.”

  “I am asking the questions. Not you. Answer me.”

  “I’m . . . applying for a job.”

  “Really? It seems to me that you’re being
evaluated like a cow at auction. Exactly what kind of position are you hoping to find?”

  The oaf who’d been evaluating her didn’t realize who Nicholas was, and he blustered, “Listen to me, old chap, we were merely—”

  Nicholas flashed a glare that could have melted lead. “I’m not old, and I’m not your chap. Get out of here before I rip you in half.”

  The man might have piped up again, but Stephen stepped beside Nicholas, and the fellow’s bravado waned. He slithered away.

  “Well, Miss Wilson?” Nicholas snarled. “I’m waiting for your explanation.”

  Nan and Nell burst into tears, and Miss Wilson held out her arms. They rushed into them, their cheeks pressed to her dress.

  “Now see what you’ve done?” she frostily scolded.

  “Me? What did I do?”

  “This week has been so accursedly awful,” she said. “Must it conclude with you yelling at me in front of the whole town?”

  A large crowd had gathered, and Stephen bent nearer and whispered, “There are too many eavesdroppers. Perhaps we should take this someplace more private.”

  They were next to a barn, and Stephen gestured to it.

  “Inside, Miss Wilson,” Nicholas commanded, and when she didn’t move, he added, “At once!”

  Stephen pulled Nan and Nell away from their sister and escorted them in, while Nicholas grabbed Miss Wilson and followed. As he tugged the heavy door closed, he graced her with his most ferocious scowl.

  “What on earth is this about?” he demanded.

  She didn’t respond, but peered at him, appearing young and lost and so forlorn that it would have broken his heart—if he’d had a heart.

  He turned to her sisters instead. “What’s going on? Tell me.”

  They frowned at each other, then at Miss Wilson, as if trying to decide who should begin and what their story should be.

  He focused on the girl to his right. “You’re Nan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me!” he repeated in an imposing way she couldn’t ignore.

  She fiddled with her skirt, dithering, then admitted, “Today was the day we had to leave.”

  “Leave where?”

  “Stafford.”

  “Why would you have to leave Stafford?”

  “Because of the deadline.”

  “What deadline?”

  “For the rent, silly. We couldn’t pay the rent.”

  “Who said you had to go?”

  “You did.”

  “I did.”

  “Yes. Don’t you remember?”

  Feeling sick, Nicholas glowered at his brother, and Stephen’s expression was grim. He was sending a silent message: Do something, you idiot!

  “There’s been a mistake,” Nicholas asserted. “Let’s get you back to your cottage.”

  “We can’t return to the cottage,” Nell chimed in, gaping at him as if he was an imbecile.

  “Why not?”

  “You had Mr. Mason burn it down.”

  “What? When?”

  “This morning. He came with some men. They chopped it down with axes and lit it on fire.”

  Stephen laid a hand on her shoulder. “How long have you known about this?”

  “The past month.”

  Nicholas whipped his furious gaze to Miss Wilson. She’d known for a month! Why hadn’t she apprised him? She’d certainly had plenty of chances!

  While she’d been nagging and belittling him over his stewardship of Stafford, she’d never once hinted that she was the one in the most immediate jeopardy.

  “You couldn’t have told me?” he fumed.

  “What would you have done about it?” she fumed back, finally finding her voice.

  “I would have stopped it!”

  “Why would you have? Mr. Mason was only obeying your orders.”

  There had been many occasions in Nicholas’s life when he’d felt like a heel, but he’d never, ever, never felt lower or more despicable than he did at that moment.

  He’d been to their cottage. Though decrepit and meager, the paltry abode had been a home, filled with furniture and personal items. Yet among the three of them, they had a few crammed pillowcases and a satchel.

  The worst wave of dread swept over him.

  “Where are the rest of your belongings?”

  “We took what we could carry,” Miss Wilson said. “Everything else was lost in the fire.”

  “Everything?” Nicholas gasped.

  It was lucky he was tough and strong or his legs might have failed him.

  The prior year, he’d set the estate on a course, recommended by Mason, but approved by himself, to get Stafford on a sound financial footing. The people affected hadn’t seemed real, so the consequences that were implemented hadn’t bothered him.

  Mason had described a population of malingerers and sloths. He’d claimed the old countess had been too sentimental, that she never fired anyone despite how frivolous or useless.

  But Emeline and her sisters weren’t lazy or indolent. They were simply three females who’d desperately needed his help, and he hadn’t given it to them. It was a sobering insight, facing the human cost of his decisions.

  What kind of man was he? What kind of lord and master? Who would let such a terrible incident occur? He wouldn’t treat a dog as they’d been treated.

  He and Stephen shared another visual exchange, then Nicholas walked to the barn door and yanked it open.

  “What are you doing?” Miss Wilson asked.

  “I’m going to Stafford Manor, and you’re coming with me.”

  “We have no intention of—”

  “Don’t argue, Miss Wilson,” he barked. “Don’t complain and don’t protest. For once, just be silent and do as you’re told.”

  “I repeat: What in the hell were you thinking?”

  “Don’t curse at me.”

  “If I thought you were listening, I’d speak in a respectful manner.”

  “I’ll listen when you stop shouting.”

  Emeline glared at Lord Stafford, wishing she had his ability to intimidate. They were in his library, her sisters whisked off by Lt. Price to the kitchen for some breakfast.

  When they’d still been present, the earl had been terse but courteous. After they’d departed, Emeline had been left to face him on her own, without the girls to serve as a buffer to his temper.

  She didn’t know how to deal with his volatile male personality. Her father, whom she’d adored, had been kind, educated, and humorous, of sound judgment and good cheer. There’d been no yelling or slamming of doors, no barked commands or furious verbal exchanges.

  It had to be exhausting being Nicholas Price. How did he find the energy to maintain all that rage?

  “You haven’t answered my question,” he said.

  “That’s because you’ve asked so many, I can’t figure out where to start with replying.”

  “How about at the beginning?”

  The beginning? Where would that be? On the day thirty years earlier when the old countess had hired her father as the town’s teacher? On the day he married Emeline’s mother? On the day her mother died birthing the twins when Emeline was only fourteen?

  Emeline had been thrust into the role of mother, so there had been no opportunity to choose another path.

  If she’d wed, as was expected of a young lady, she wouldn’t currently be struggling. She’d have a home of her own, with a husband as breadwinner. She and her sisters would be safe instead of having been cast to the winds of fate by rich, capricious Nicholas Price.

  He seemed to realize that she didn’t respond to bellowing. He reined himself in, and she was grateful for his restraint. She was too beaten down for quarreling and in no condition to spar.

  “Miss Wilson—Emeline—” he said m
ore gently, “I’m trying to understand why you were selling yourself at the market.”

  “What was I supposed to do?”

  “But to sell yourself to a stranger!” He shuddered at the prospect. “Have you any notion of the sorts of things that can happen to a woman under those circumstances?”

  “Of course I know. I’m not stupid.”

  “No, you’re not, so why didn’t you . . . you . . .” He threw up his hands, a man out of ideas. “Why didn’t you go to your neighbors? Why not the church? Surely the vicar could have provided some assistance.”

  “I went to him. There’s no help to be had, and no one has an extra bread crumb or farthing to spare. I explained the situation to you when I came to London.”

  “And I have responded to your allegations.” He shook a finger under her nose to emphasize his point. “Why can’t I get through to you? This property is not a charity, and I can’t afford to support malingerers.”

  “Such as me and my sisters? Yes, we’ve been such a drain on your coffers.”

  “When I gave the orders to Mason, I didn’t mean people like you.”

  “Then who did you mean?”

  “I meant people who were . . . were . . .” He halted, flummoxed again. “Why am I arguing with you? It’s a waste of breath. You’ll never comprehend my position.”

  Despite what he assumed, she comprehended his position all too well.

  The estate, and his management of it, was beyond her realm of influence. She’d tried to make a difference, but had been unable to affect any change. At the first sign of resistance from him, her neighbors had buckled to his authority. She wasn’t convinced they truly wanted matters to improve. Perhaps they secretly enjoyed their misery, and they were welcome to it.

  She had to cease worrying about everybody else and focus on her own troubles, her chief concern being: What now?

  Yes, he’d rescued her from the market. Yes, he’d brought her to the manor, but so what? He’d offered to feed them, then . . . ?

  Once they were stabilized and walked out his door, they didn’t even have a house to go back to. It was burned to the ground. Were they to live in a ditch out on the lane? Would he smile at them as he rode by on his expensive stallion? As he passed, would he toss them scraps from his dinner so they wouldn’t starve?