Temptation and Surrender (17 page)

M
onday morning dawned brilliantly fine. Em bustled about, filling her time with her innkeeper’s chores. Jonas would be calling midmorning to look over the books; all was in readiness—she really didn’t need to dwell on the event beforehand.

Customers rolled in for their morning teas and to partake of Hilda’s latest batch of scones. All was progressing smoothly—the common room, more than half-full with the morning trade, truly looking the part of a successful inn—when, flitting between her office and the hall, Em heard light carriage wheels crunch over the gravel forecourt.

Assuming Jonas had driven there in his curricle, she quit her sanctuary and headed for the open inn door. Before her wiser self could ask what she thought she was doing, she put her head out—

And immediately pulled it back.

The gentleman stepping down from a gig wasn’t Jonas.

And he’d seen her.

Regardless, sweeping around, she hurried—rushed—back to her office, but she wasn’t in time. She’d just reached the bar counter when a stentorian voice bellowed, “Here!
Em!
Where the devil are you off to, gel?”

Every single person on both sides of the common room stopped talking and turned their heads to stare. Delicious scones lay forgotten as they took in the large, somewhat rotund gentleman who stood in the doorway, an expression of severe pique firmly fixed on his choleric visage.

Caught, trapped, Em could only stare along with everyone else at her uncle, Harold Potheridge, he of the manor in Leicestershire with no paid servants.

He frowned and flourished his cane at her. “Been searching for you everywhere.” He moved heavily forward; he was nattily, just a trifle too colorfully, dressed, and while he affected the cane, he didn’t need it—he was still quite vigorous, if rather past his prime.

From the corner of her eye, Em saw Edgar slide out from behind the bar; she half-expected him to come up beside her, but he didn’t reappear. Instead Harold came steadily on, bowling belligerently down the center of the room with a sublime disregard for everyone else there.

“What did you mean by it, eh?” Halting in the clear space where the central aisle met the bar, clearly relishing having an audience, he leaned on his cane and glowered at her. “Leaving my house like that after I’d taken you and your sister and brother in—and even suffered you to keep those brats of half sisters with you instead of casting the harpies out, as I’d every right to do.”

A soft gasp rose from the female side of the room—at Harold’s back; without seeing the expressions of incipient outrage that went with it, he smiled craftily, imagining it was her behavior in leaving his house that had caused the reaction.

Em forced herself to stand and face him; it was too late to undo the damage he’d already done. Issy was with the twins upstairs—they shouldn’t hear the commotion—and Henry was safe at the rectory with Joshua. She could deal with Harold on her own.

She inclined her head distantly. “Good morning, Uncle Harold. I did leave you a note—you’d gone off to the races, if you recall.”

“I recall very well, gel!” Harold was back to glowering. “What I fail to comprehend is why you left my house—how you dared to simply get up and go!” He thumped the floor with his cane for emphasis. “
I’m
in charge of you. And I say your place—and that of your sister and brother—is with me.” He waved his cane at her, half-turned to the door. “Go get your things—you’re coming back with me to Runcorn immediately.”

Em raised her chin. “I think not, Uncle.”

His face started to turn purple. She hurried on, “If you consult with Mr. Cunningham—our solicitor, remember?—he’ll confirm that as of my twenty-fifth birthday—more than a month ago—I became my own person and assumed guardianship of the others, replacing you as our guardian. Consequently, where we choose to live is no longer any concern of yours.”

She sensed a familiar presence at her back. Jonas had arrived. He was close, but not so close as to make matters worse.

“Indeed.” She kept her attention fixed on the real threat in the room. “What we do with our lives—any of us—is no longer up to you.”

Harold’s beady blue eyes shifted swiftly to right, then left, then fixed on her face. “I don’t care what that ferrety solicitor says—I’m your uncle, flesh-and-blood family, and I know what’s best for you.” He thumped the floor with his cane again.

She sensed Jonas shift restlessly. “I’m afraid, Uncle, that you’ll have to think again.” She lifted her chin. “We’re very comfortable here.”

Harold’s expression turned apoplectic. “Dammit! You’ll do as I say! Get your things
now
—and fetch that cipher of a sister of yours and your damned brother as well!”

“No.” Em stood her ground. All she could do was let the truth out; as defenses went, it was solid. “We’re not going back to Runcorn to continue to be your unpaid staff. You’ve used us—your flesh-and-blood family—for the past eight years, but now that’s at an end. I suggest you return to Runcorn and start looking for staff—I imagine it must be quite uncomfortable alone in that big house and you’ll want to get staff settled before winter.”

Harold’s expression stated he couldn’t believe his ears. “This,” he stated at full volume, “isn’t
right
—no matter what that weasely solicitor says!”

For the first time he looked around at his audience, seeking support; his gaze passed over the fascinated, riveted expressions, skated over the women, then more slowly over the men in the tap—and finally came to rest on the male two paces behind Em’s left shoulder. Jonas. “Who’s the magistrate in this place, heh?”

The intonation suggested “this place” was beneath his notice, but Jonas smiled. From the corner of her eye, Em saw and decided if he smiled at her like that she would run.

“As it happens, my father’s the magistrate,” Jonas replied. “But he’s away from home and not expected back for some time.” He omitted to add that in view of his father’s lengthy absence, he’d been deputized in his place.

Harold brought his glare to bear on Em—who didn’t quail in the least. “I’ll
wait
,” the old beggar growled.

Beady blue eyes fixed on Em, he smashed the floor with his cane one last time, and half-turned to the door before vindictively stating, “The law will see I’ve the right. The magistrate will hand you back to me, and then, missy, your half sisters will be out in the streets, and you and your sister will be back scrubbing floors at Runcorn—mark my words!”

Jonas stepped up to Em’s side, but the old braggart had finished. He swung on his heel and strode out of the inn—before Jonas or Joshua, who’d slipped into the inn a few minutes before, or any number of men who’d risen from their seats, showed him out.

Knowing Em’s liking for having the last word, Jonas was faintly surprised when none followed her uncle—was he truly her uncle?—from the inn.

He looked at her. Head high, spine straight, she stood watching the old man leave, watched him pass through the door…then she started to shake.

E
m found herself pushed into one of the wing chairs. Jonas was giving orders, Joshua overseeing. Lady Fortemain and old Mrs. Smollet sat on either side of her, each patting one of her hands, both assuring her in their very different ways that everything would be
all right
.

Then Hilda arrived, nudging everyone aside to place a mug of tea, made just as she liked it, in her hands.

“There now. You get that into you and you’ll feel much better.” Hilda glanced at Jonas, who was standing, hands on hips, looking rather grimly down at Em. “And then we’ll all work out what to do.”

Turning, Hilda poked Jonas in the chest, although he wasn’t really in her way. “Give her some space, do. Needs to catch her breath, she does.” With that, she headed back to her kitchen.

Em sipped and tried to steady her wits, tried to focus, tried to think. She’d seen Harold off, but he’d be back. Nothing was more certain.

A slight commotion heralded the arrival of Phyllida with Lucifer behind her. Phyllida looked at her twin; Jonas didn’t even meet her gaze, but she seemed to read all she needed in his face. Smoothly leaning down, she grasped Em’s arm and lightly squeezed. “Sweetie told us what happened. Whatever you need, we’re all here.”

Em looked into her dark eyes, and blinked rapidly. A quick glance around showed every head bobbing in agreement, including Jonas’s.

Lady Fortemain leaned closer. “Was it true—what you said? That he—your uncle—had you and the others working as unpaid servants in his house?”

“Yes.” Em paused, then drew in a breath and let the truth free. “We lived in York. Our mother died when we were young, and then later our father died—”

She gave them the whole story, all of it, with only two omissions. She didn’t reveal their real surname—that, after all, changed nothing—and she omitted to mention what had brought them specifically to Colyton, namely their family’s mysterious treasure.

Glancing around as she spoke, she thought that the village outside the inn must have emptied; everyone had crammed in to hear what had gone on, and the explanation. Only her siblings remained oblivious, but they were safe and out of Harold’s reach; Joshua had earlier told her that Henry was still at the rectory, his nose buried in a book, and Issy and the twins were still upstairs.

At the conclusion of her tale, Miss Hellebore, ensconced in one of the heavily padded armchairs, leaned forward on her cane, her expression one of abject regret. “My dear, I’m
so
sorry. I fear I’ve let my room to the blackguard—I had no idea he was here to cause you trouble.” Her many chins wobbled in distress. She earned a little pin money by letting her downstairs room.

Em sat up and leaned across to squeeze the old lady’s hand. “It’s not your fault—you’re not in any way to blame.”

Miss Hellebore sniffed. “Well, it’s kind of you to say so, dear, but I don’t want trouble coming to you from under my roof.” She glanced up at Lucifer and Joshua. “If someone will help me, I’ll go home right now and evict him.”

The men were transparently eager to assist, but…Em held up her hand. “No—please. Quite aside from the fact I like the idea of Harold having to pay you—as you can guess he’s the most dreadful miser—but if he doesn’t stay with you, he’ll try to stay here—” A dark murmur confirmed he wouldn’t succeed. “But,” she went on, “he’s stubborn and dogged, so he’ll find somewhere, and…well, I’d much rather know where he’s staying while he’s here.” She looked around, her gaze coming to rest on Jonas. “Eventually he’ll realize we’re not going to budge, and he’ll go away.”

Others grumbled; most of the men were in favor of evicting Harold from the village altogether. Em hoped wiser heads would prevail; she knew Harold—he was stubborn, but she and her siblings could be even more so. They’d escaped and were very definitely not going back.

Lady Fortemain gripped her wrist quite fiercely, a martial light in her eyes. “You’re not to worry, dear. We won’t let that horrid man have you. He simply can’t.” She made a gesture that eloquently dismissed Harold and his claim on them. “You
chose
to come here, and now you’re one of us. You belong here.” She gestured around them. “You’ve made the inn a lovely place again, and we’re not going to let him bully you into leaving.”

Heads nodded all around, some belligerent, others earnest—all adamant.

Em found it amazing how strongly everyone patently felt; never had she had others—a community of others—stand up for her before. “Thank you.” Her voice was a trifle husky. She glanced around. “All of you. And now—” She slowly rose from the chair. “I must get back to my duties.” She turned to the room and smiled. “I hope you’ll stay and enjoy Hilda’s scones.”

With that, her smile still in place, she made her way through the crowd, heading for her office. Everyone she passed had a kind word for her, or a pat on the shoulder. She was clinging to her composure by the time she won free, slipped through the small hall and into her office. Her empty office.

Not that that lasted for long.

Nevertheless, Jonas gave her time to slump into the chair behind the desk, then, in an effort to put Harold and his threats, however misdirected, in perspective, she rearranged the account ledgers before her and fiddled with a pencil, waiting…

She looked up and Jonas was standing in the doorway, steadily regarding her. He met her gaze, his own unreadable, his expression the same.

After a moment, he stepped into the room, and for the first time since she’d been using the office, he reached out, caught the door; the babble of voices from the tap faded as, his gaze locked on her, he closed it—then leaned back against the long panel.

She held his gaze. “I’m sorry I lied to you.”

Head resting against the door, he considered that. “I understand why you did. I can understand why you told me—and everyone else—the tale you did. That doesn’t trouble me—escaping from your uncle Harold couldn’t have been easy. But…”

As always, there was a “but”; she waited to hear what his was.

He grimaced. “Are there any other well-fleshed skeletons in your closet? Even less well fleshed?”

Against all the odds, the question made her smile. Effectively defused the tension between them. She shook her head. “No. Just Harold. But believe me, he’s quite enough.”

He pushed away from the door, came forward to pull out the chair before the desk and sit. “That I can readily believe.”

She hesitated, then asked, “When are you expecting your father to return?”

He grinned evilly. “Not for some time…and I’m the magistrate in his absence, anyway.”

“You are?”

He nodded. “And as the local representative of the law, I can assure you no one is going to be aiding Harold in any way. Incidentally, what is his full name, just in case I need to know?”

“Potheridge. Harold Gordon Potheridge.”

Jonas nodded. “Right.” He let his gaze fall to the ledgers on the desk. “Now…what’s the state of my inn?”

She blinked, but readily opened the ledger and proceeded to demonstrate just what an excellent innkeeper she was.

Jonas paid attention, asked questions whenever possible—and from behind his businesslike demeanor, watched her like a hawk. Focusing on the inn—on all the wonders she’d performed with the place—helped put her bothersome uncle from her mind, and allowed her to concentrate on something she enjoyed.

That she enjoyed running his inn was beyond doubt.

He sat back while she told him her further plans, satisfied on all counts.