Nicholas

by Cheryl Holt

“She has disgraced herself with the earl of Stafford. She has played the whore for him. The entire time he was visiting the estate, she played the whore!”

  He shouted the accusation at the top of his lungs. His face was red, the veins in his neck bulging. He could have been the devil rising up from Hell.

  “And the twins?” Jo demanded. “They’re children. What sins have they committed?”

  “They have committed no sin. Their sister is a harlot, and thus, an unfit guardian. They have been separated from her custody and control.”

  “I don’t believe you about Emeline,” Jo scoffed. “You’re lying, and I’ll see that you pay for it. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll see that you pay.”

  “With what currency?”

  “You’ll be damned for this,” Jo hurled.

  “Not by my God,” he proudly claimed. “I have carried out His work this day. He is pleased with me—His humble servant.”

  “You. Are. Mad.”

  Pushing by the maid, she stormed out and raced up the stairs. She locked her door, then she paced and paced, trying to devise a plan, to figure out how she could learn Emeline’s whereabouts, how she could muster some help.

  The men in the neighborhood were too timid to assist her. They’d been beaten down by events and were too cowardly to rise against Oscar or Benedict Mason. Nor would they participate in any enterprise that might anger the earl. They wouldn’t act without knowing where he stood in the matter.

  She thought about Lord Stafford, and she remembered that afternoon out on the lane when she and Emeline had been walking. The Price brothers had ridden up, and sparks ignited between Emeline and the earl.

  Jo had been concerned enough to question Stephen, to wonder if she should have a talk with Emeline.

  If the earl had ruined Emeline, then he owed her some support as remuneration. He certainly owed her his protection—whether they had dallied or not. She was one of his tenants, and she’d grown up on his estate. He had to be apprised of the harm his vicar and land agent were perpetrating in his name.

  She calmed, realizing that she had to get to London as fast as she could. Stephen would know how to find his brother. Stephen would tell her what to do.

  Downstairs, a door slammed. She peered out the window to see that her brother had left the house. He had on his hat and coat, and he was heading to the barn to saddle his horse, which meant he’d be gone for hours.

  She crawled under her bed and pulled out her portmanteau. Swiftly, she filled it with the bare essentials, then she gazed around, convinced she would never return. It would be awful to forget any significant items, but she owned so little.

  Save for a tiny miniature of her exhausted, beleaguered mother, there was nothing she wanted.

  She buckled the straps on her bag, then tiptoed down to the front parlor. Oscar kept the Sunday collection money behind a loose brick next to the hearth. He was a lax bookkeeper, and often, months passed without his balancing accounts, without his sending cash on to the bank as was required.

  With nary a ripple in her conscience, she removed the brick and took every penny.

  She stared up to Heaven and murmured, “Forgive me, Lord, but it’s for a good cause. I’ll pay it back. I promise!”

  She spun and hastened away without a word to anyone.

  “How about this?”

  “No. How many times must I tell you? My brother and I are wearing our uniforms.”

  Stephen glared at the fussy, effeminate tailor hired by Lady Veronica’s mother. They were in Nicholas’s London house, in an upstairs salon. The tailor had an armload of formal coats that he wanted Stephen to try on, but Stephen had no intention of consenting.

  The ceremony was in three days, so everyone was in a dither. Craftspeople—chefs and the like—had assumed they had the rest of the summer to prepare, but the schedule had been shredded, and Stephen refused to be dragged into the chaos.

  He didn’t care about Lady Veronica or the wedding. He most especially didn’t care about the frantic, last-minute arrangements. Nicholas was making the biggest mistake of his life, and he’d regret it forever. Stephen couldn’t persuade him to cry off, and the notion of having Veronica Stewart as his sister-in-law was revolting.

  “Your uniforms are inappropriate for the event,” the tailor declared. “They’ll set the wrong tone and interfere with the bride’s coloring.”

  “Oh dear,” Stephen sarcastically retorted, “how will she survive it?”

  “This one is very stylish.” The man held out a coat and flashed a simpering smile. “Let’s see how it looks on you, shall we?”

  “Let’s not and say we did.”

  “It’s important to Lady Veronica.”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass about her.”

  The man huffed with indignation but, undaunted, he approached as if he might wrestle Stephen into it. Stephen wasn’t about to have the gay blade put his hands on Stephen’s body, for he was certain the fellow would enjoy it too much.

  “Touch me,” Stephen threatened, “and I’ll break your arm.”

  The tailor pursed his lips. “I’ll have to report back to Lady Veronica’s mother. I’ll have to inform her that you’re being totally uncooperative.”

  “You do that.”

  “I can’t predict what the consequences will be.”

  “I’ll risk it.”

  The man trembled with affront and began gathering up his supplies. As he stomped away, a maid peeked in.

  When he and Nicholas had first arrived in England, they’d hired no staff, but on their return from Stafford, Stephen had sought out an employment agency and had brought in several people to cook and clean.

  Gad, Lady Veronica was about to be living in the accursed residence! While the condition of the place had improved, Stephen doubted she’d deem it acceptable.

  “Mr. Price?” the girl said.

  “Yes?”

  “You have a visitor.”

  Stephen frowned, unable to fathom who it might be. They had occasional callers—female callers—but they all came to see Nicholas.

  “Who is it?”

  “A Mrs. Josephine Merrick.”

  Stephen cocked his head as if he hadn’t heard correctly. “Who?”

  “It’s Mrs. Josephine Merrick, from Stafford village. Are you at home?”

  Jo had traveled all the way from Stafford? Why would she have?

  They’d said all there was to say, and he couldn’t imagine what remained.

  Though his brother had temporarily delayed him in his plan to bring Annie to Stafford by summer’s end, she would be at the estate.

  In the meantime, Stephen would find himself a wife, and she wouldn’t be any of the silly London debutantes who were suddenly throwing themselves at him simply because he was now an earl’s brother.

  He’d select the first decent woman he encountered, marry her, and settle at Stafford. He’d grow old there, surrounded by his family.

  Jo would suffocate in the vicarage, being denigrated and harassed by her brother.

  A vision flitted by, of the two of them elderly and wizened. He’d bump into her out on the lane. She’d be hunched over and worn out while he’d be vital and thriving.

  Which of us made the right choice? he’d ask her. Don’t you wish you’d picked a life with me, instead of with your pious, ridiculous brother?

  “What should I tell her, Mr. Price?” the maid inquired. “She mentioned that she’s come a long distance and that it’s urgent.”

  “Urgent?” he scoffed.

  There was no subject urgent, except the possibility that she was increasing. But it wasn’t soon enough for her to discover that she was pregnant, and besides, she insisted she was barren. She’d nearly been divorced over it.

  What else could she want?

  The only other likely topic was a rehashing of their abbreviated affair, but he’d slit his wrists before he’d discuss it again. Couldn’t she just let the past lie? Must they argue over it like a pair of
angry washerwomen?

  “I won’t speak with her,” he decided.

  “She was afraid you might refuse, so she wrote you this letter.”

  The girl held it out, and he walked over and took it.

  He studied it, tapping the corner on his palm. Without a doubt, if he opened it, he’d sucked into her pathetic world. He’d always regret it.

  “It doesn’t matter what she’s written,” he said. “Whatever her problems, I don’t care to hear about them.” At his heartless statement, the girl couldn’t hide a scowl, and he added, “I’m scarcely acquainted with her, and I have no idea why she’d seek me out.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Please advise her that I am not at home.”

  “What if she asks when you’ll return?”

  “Inform her that I’ve already gone back to the army, and you don’t know when I’ll be in England again.”

  The maid nodded and left, and he went to the hearth and pitched the letter into the fire. In a few seconds, it was consumed by the flames and reduced to a pile of ash.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Merrick, but Mr. Price isn’t here.”

  “Where is he?” Jo queried. “Could I track him down somewhere, or should I wait until he comes back?”

  “He’s not in London. He’s been recalled to his regiment.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes.”

  Silent and incredulous, she stared with exasperation. The girl was a bad liar, and her cheeks flushed bright red.

  A servant always knew if the master was in residence or not. And a servant especially knew if the master was in England or not. If Stephen was on his way to Europe, why had the maid bothered to ask if he would see Jo?

  “May I have my letter?” Jo inquired.

  “Ah…” The maid flushed an even deeper shade of red, and she shuffled her feet. “It’s upstairs. I’ll keep it for him.”

  “How long will that be?” Jo snidely said. “Two years? Five years? My news will be a bit dated by then.”

  “Probably, Mrs. Merrick.”

  Jo grumbled with frustration. “Did he even read it?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “Why wouldn’t he talk to me? Have you a message?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  Jo sighed. What had she expected? Where Stephen Price was concerned, she’d made her mistakes, and obviously, he was more rigid than she’d assumed. She’d hurt him, and he didn’t easily forgive.

  Previously, Jo would have slithered away, defeated, but the little mouse he loathed had vanished. It had been replaced by a lioness who was roaring with aggravation.

  She was ready to push her way inside, being perfectly amenable to storming through the house until she located him, but she was distracted by a horse leaving from the rear stable. She glanced over to find Stephen cantering off down the street.

  “Coward!” she shouted, and her word seemed to strike him. He stiffened as if she’d hit him with a rock, but he kept going.

  She peered at the maid.

  “I apologize, ma’am,” the girl said.

  “Do you suppose he’ll return?”

  “I don’t have any idea. He’s very rarely here.”

  “Is his brother at home? Could I speak with him instead? It’s dreadfully important.”

  “We haven’t seen the earl in days. It’s been awfully hectic, what with the wedding and all.”

  “What wedding? Who is getting married?”

  “The earl.”

  “When?”

  “This Friday. It was to be held at the end of August, but they’ve moved up the date.”

  The earl was engaged? He was about to be married?

  According to Oscar, the earl had conducted an illicit affair with Emeline. Had he been betrothed the whole time?

  What a cad! What a scoundrel!

  If he was occupied with wedding preparations, what chance had Jo of convincing him to aid her? He had so many other irons in the fire. Why would he expend an ounce of effort on Emeline?

  Still, she had to try.

  “Listen,” she said to the maid, “I need you to talk to Mr. Price for me. I need you to be sure he reads my letter.”

  “I wouldn’t have the authority to make him, ma’am.”

  “Better yet, if you see the earl, tell him to read it.

  “I don’t know how I would.”

  “My friend, Emeline, is in terrible trouble. Repeat her name for me: Emeline Wilson.”

  “Emeline Wilson, yes, ma’am.”

  “Can you remember it?”

  “Yes.”

  “She is one of the earl’s tenants, and he’s very fond of her. His land agent has had her arrested on false charges. Her and her sisters.”

  “Arrested! My goodness!”

  “Her sisters are only ten years old. The earl must hurry to Stafford immediately.”

  “But he’s marrying in three days! He might not be able.”

  Jo opened her purse and retrieved a coin. She slipped it into the maid’s hand. “Speak to him for me. Swear that you will.”

  The girl studied the money, then Jo, then the money again.

  “I will, ma’am—if I see him—but you hadn’t ought to count on it.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  The maid went inside and shut the door, and Jo dawdled on the stoop, wondering what to do. She plopped down and waited for Stephen, but to no avail. The earl didn’t arrive, either. Neither did anyone else. For a household that was having a society wedding, the place seemed deserted.

  She tarried until the sun dropped in the western sky, until the temperature grew so cool that she was shivering.

  She didn’t dare be caught out on the streets after dark, so she walked to a busy thoroughfare and hired a hackney to take her to the coaching inn where she was staying.

  As she bumped along, her temper ignited, and by the time she was in her room, it was a full-on boil.

  Stephen was letting his wounded pride rule him. The stupid oaf! His departure from Stafford had generated a moment of exceptional clarity, and she wouldn’t ignore it. She loved him and wanted to marry him so she could be with him forever.

  Evening waned and night fell, and as she pondered, the wildest idea began to form.

  Stephen was bringing his daughter to Stafford, and he would eventually bring a wife there, too. He was seeking a no-nonsense female who wasn’t afraid to stare down the village gossips.

  He thought Jo was a scared rabbit, but she’d changed. He’d never believe her, though, so she’d have to prove it. She’d have to show him that she could cherish his daughter as no other woman ever would.

  By dawn, she was feverish with the urge to be on the road.

  She sat at the desk in the corner, and she penned three identical letters to the earl. Then, as the first coach rolled into the yard, she grabbed her bag and rushed downstairs.

  She handed the letters to the proprietor. “I need these delivered to the same address, at different hours, over the next two days.”

  “To the same address?”

  “Yes. I’m desperate to have them read, so I’m sending extra copies.”

  The man noticed the name on the front. “The Earl of Stafford? My!”

  “There’s been a death in the family,” she lied. “His favorite nephew drowned. We’re trying to notify him so he won’t miss the funeral, but we haven’t had any luck.”

  She passed on a note with directions to the earl’s London mansion, and she gave him some money for his trouble.

  “You’ll see to it?” she asked. “You’ll have them delivered?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll get them there. How about one this morning? Another this afternoon? And the third tomorrow?”

  “That’s perfect.”

  She sighed with relief. She didn’t know how else to contact the earl. It hardly seemed productive to camp out on his stoop, and she couldn’t guess his habits or routines. How would she ever locate him among the London hoards
? Hopefully, the word URGENT scrawled in large bold print would capture someone’s attention. Surely, a servant would track him down.

  “Now then,” she said, “I’m interested in booking passage to Antwerp, Belgium. I have to visit a convent there, and I need advice as to ships and schedules.”

  “Belgium? Why that’s any easy trip. Let me explain how you go about it.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “If we aid wounded veterans, we’ll simply be encouraging them in their poverty.”

  Several men muttered, “Here, here!”

  Nicholas grabbed his whiskey and took a slow drink, drowning all the derogatory replies that were dying to spill out.

  He was at his prenuptial supper, being hosted by Veronica’s godparents. Very soon, the butler would announce the meal—if Veronica would ever deign to arrive—and they’d all traipse in to eat.

  He gazed around the ornate salon. There were probably eighty guests present: dukes and earls and barons, leaders of government and industry. They’d come to toast Nicholas for his having snagged Veronica as his bride.

  It should have been the greatest night of his life, but he was so miserable!

  Stephen had refused to attend, so he was alone, surrounded by people he didn’t know and didn’t like.

  When Veronica was present at a fete—he’d discovered that she was habitually late—he was able to distract himself by counting how many of her character traits annoyed him. It was a game he’d learned to play: List the reasons that prove you’re insane.

  Pride was driving him; he realized that it was. He was extremely vain, and he’d never been good at admitting his mistakes. Forging ahead was idiotic, but he’d been on the same path for too long, and it seemed impossible to shuck off his engagement and walk away.

  He was loitering like a dunce, fuming as those around him expounded on the issues of the day. He’d been too busy serving his country so he hadn’t yet attended to his duties in Parliament, and he wasn’t cognizant of the subjects being debated. Apparently, a bill was pending that would help crippled soldiers by providing them with pensions and jobs.

  The maimed invalids, missing arms and legs, were becoming a nuisance in the city. They were everywhere, begging for coins and scraps of food, and the rich were discomfited by having to view their condition.