be?
He was a cold-blooded killer. Certainly she had been willing to contemplate boiling both Jake and Felix in oil, or hanging them up by hooks through their skin—all kinds of fanciful tortures. But she could never have fired a pistol ball into either of them.
And, as the final straw, it hadn’t even been over the assault on her, but over pudding .
She had run the confrontation through her head, to try to make sense of it, but it couldn’t be made to appear otherwise. Certainly she had been too stunned to follow the men’s words exactly, but she remembered Jake saying, “I don’t fight over my pudding.” And Piers Verderan had shot him.
In a very strange place.
It was clear she just didn’t understand men. Could Hector have done such a thing? Assuredly not. On the other hand, he would have been as useless as the Daffodil Dandy. If Hector had come upon the scene he would have preached at Felix and Jake about the error of their ways. Emily had no faith that such an approach would have secured her release unharmed.
What of Marcus? He was more of Verderan’s stamp—a man’s man, a devotee of hunting and shooting and a fine shot. No, she couldn’t imagine him acting so, either. He would have plunged in with his fists, then rehashed the fight for hours after as he applied steak to his black eye and cold cloths to his bleeding nose.
Thoughts of her brother made tears trickle down Emily’s face, and she brushed them away. Had Felix been telling the truth? Had the government given up hope of Marcus’s safe return? It was very likely. Emily knew from the newspapers what horrors were left after a battle. It was a wonder so many soldiers were ultimately accounted for. If Marcus lived they should have had word of him. It was too temptingly convenient to imagine that he might have lost his memory.
Oh, enough of this, she told herself angrily, sitting up in bed. Falling into a fit of the dismals would help no one. When the big old clock in the upstairs hall boomed out the hour for the second time, Emily abandoned all attempt to rest and plotted instead how she was to escape the house without an interview with her father. She dressed in her habit and crept downstairs, hoping to be well on her way to Somerby before she was spotted, but Mrs. Dobson was alert.
“Your father wants you, Miss Emily,” the woman said brusquely but giving Emily a comprehensively searching glance to make sure she was up to any stresses and strains.
Emily sighed. “Now?”
“An hour ago,” said the woman with a warning look.
Emily sighed again but made her way to her father’s room.
She knocked softly and peeped around the door, hoping Sir Henry might be asleep. Her eyes met his—very much awake.
“What you creeping about for? Come on in. I want to talk to you.”
Despite a tendency for her knees to knock, Emily reminded herself she was a grown woman, and walked with dignity to the bedside chair. “Yes, Father?” She sat down, back straight, hands in lap.
“‘ Yes, Father. Yes, Father.’ Anyone’d think butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.”
Emily felt her color flare. What had that man said? “What do you mean, Father?”
His eyes narrowed as he tutted more in sorrow than anger. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re of an age to turn silly. First you drench yourself with cheap perfume; then you fling yourself at any man you see.”
Emily thought she was going to faint. He’d said . . . “I deny it!” she declared. “How dare—”
“Oh, give over,” said her father wearily. “It’s my fault for not marrying you off years ago. Selfish of me. Good to have a woman around the place, and God knows, Junia’s no use. I suppose I’ll have to bring Marshalswick to the point.”
“No!” cried Emily, leaping to her feet. Then she clamped control on herself even though she was burning with fury. “Don’t you dare, Father. I wouldn’t marry Hector Marshalswick if he was the last man on earth. I will
He was a cold-blooded killer. Certainly she had been willing to contemplate boiling both Jake and Felix in oil, or hanging them up by hooks through their skin—all kinds of fanciful tortures. But she could never have fired a pistol ball into either of them.
And, as the final straw, it hadn’t even been over the assault on her, but over pudding .
She had run the confrontation through her head, to try to make sense of it, but it couldn’t be made to appear otherwise. Certainly she had been too stunned to follow the men’s words exactly, but she remembered Jake saying, “I don’t fight over my pudding.” And Piers Verderan had shot him.
In a very strange place.
It was clear she just didn’t understand men. Could Hector have done such a thing? Assuredly not. On the other hand, he would have been as useless as the Daffodil Dandy. If Hector had come upon the scene he would have preached at Felix and Jake about the error of their ways. Emily had no faith that such an approach would have secured her release unharmed.
What of Marcus? He was more of Verderan’s stamp—a man’s man, a devotee of hunting and shooting and a fine shot. No, she couldn’t imagine him acting so, either. He would have plunged in with his fists, then rehashed the fight for hours after as he applied steak to his black eye and cold cloths to his bleeding nose.
Thoughts of her brother made tears trickle down Emily’s face, and she brushed them away. Had Felix been telling the truth? Had the government given up hope of Marcus’s safe return? It was very likely. Emily knew from the newspapers what horrors were left after a battle. It was a wonder so many soldiers were ultimately accounted for. If Marcus lived they should have had word of him. It was too temptingly convenient to imagine that he might have lost his memory.
Oh, enough of this, she told herself angrily, sitting up in bed. Falling into a fit of the dismals would help no one. When the big old clock in the upstairs hall boomed out the hour for the second time, Emily abandoned all attempt to rest and plotted instead how she was to escape the house without an interview with her father. She dressed in her habit and crept downstairs, hoping to be well on her way to Somerby before she was spotted, but Mrs. Dobson was alert.
“Your father wants you, Miss Emily,” the woman said brusquely but giving Emily a comprehensively searching glance to make sure she was up to any stresses and strains.
Emily sighed. “Now?”
“An hour ago,” said the woman with a warning look.
Emily sighed again but made her way to her father’s room.
She knocked softly and peeped around the door, hoping Sir Henry might be asleep. Her eyes met his—very much awake.
“What you creeping about for? Come on in. I want to talk to you.”
Despite a tendency for her knees to knock, Emily reminded herself she was a grown woman, and walked with dignity to the bedside chair. “Yes, Father?” She sat down, back straight, hands in lap.
“‘ Yes, Father. Yes, Father.’ Anyone’d think butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.”
Emily felt her color flare. What had that man said? “What do you mean, Father?”
His eyes narrowed as he tutted more in sorrow than anger. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re of an age to turn silly. First you drench yourself with cheap perfume; then you fling yourself at any man you see.”
Emily thought she was going to faint. He’d said . . . “I deny it!” she declared. “How dare—”
“Oh, give over,” said her father wearily. “It’s my fault for not marrying you off years ago. Selfish of me. Good to have a woman around the place, and God knows, Junia’s no use. I suppose I’ll have to bring Marshalswick to the point.”
“No!” cried Emily, leaping to her feet. Then she clamped control on herself even though she was burning with fury. “Don’t you dare, Father. I wouldn’t marry Hector Marshalswick if he was the last man on earth. I will
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