“You forget yourself, Marcus.” Sterling’s cool voice held an undercurrent of warning. “Now,” he gritted out, “I don’t care how you do it, just get her to marry you.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Did I not pay for your education, Marcus? Can you really be such a simpleton?”
“What do you mean?”
“Come now. Charm and flattery never fail, at least where Macy women are concerned. Woo her, flatter her, make love to her. And if all else fails... compromise.”
“You are not suggesting...?”
“Why not. You have done the like before.”
Marcus hissed, “But she is alady.”
“And will be restored to respectability as soon as she weds you.”
Margaret pressed a hand over her mouth, stifling a cry of outrage and swallowing the acid climbing her throat.
Milk forgotten, she stole back upstairs.The vile lechers!
Reaching her room, Margaret pushed a chair against the door, doubting it would slow a man for long. She paced back and forth across her bedchamber. She was no match for Marcus physically. If he forced himself into her room, she would be a caged bird, a cornered hare.
One of her father’s sermons came to mind, the one about how everyone might take advice from young Joseph. When Potiphar’s lascivious wife tried to seduce him, he did not bar himself in his room.
He fled.
She needed to do the same. She would not stay in Sterling Benton’s home another night.
But where could she go? She had only the few coins she had found on his dressing table. Those wouldn’t take her far. If only her mother were home. For though she had clearly taken Sterling’s side to this point, she would never stand for her daughter’s ruination!
Margaret heard something and stood still, straining her ears. Had Marcus come to her door already?
Muffled sobbing. What in the world? She crossed to her dressing room and opened the door. Joan slumped against the wall, her pale face blotchy beneath auburn fringe and white cap, her light eyes streaming tears.
“What is it?” Margaret asked, but dread prickled through her, as if she already knew the answer. Had Marcus...?
“It’s Mr. Benton. He accused me of taking money from his dressing room. But I never did, miss. I never!”
Margaret’s mouth went dry. Her stomach knotted. “I am sorry, Joan. I don’t know what to say.”
Joan’s round eyes beseeched hers. “You believe me, don’t you?”
Margaret pressed her lips together. “Yes.”
Something in Joan’s expression shifted. Her brows lowered and she stared at Margaret with disconcerting directness.
Margaret looked away first.
Joan said, “He told me to leave straightaway, but I snuck up here to see you. I hoped you might believe me and write me a character. I won’t get another post without one.”
Margaret’s mind spun. She had no time to be writing letters. Not now. “I know nothing of character references, Joan. Though I would be happy to vouch for you... sometime.”
Joan frowned. “It was you what took the money, wasn’t it?”
Margaret swallowed back the guilt churning her innards like spoilt cod. How had Joan guessed? She was usually a better actress than that. “It was only a few coins. I never intended for you to take the blame.”
The tears in Joan’s eyes sparked into anger. “And who else would be blamed when the money turned up missing? It’s always the maid.”
