“How are you in London?”
I laughed despite myself. “The same question, twice. How does anyone come to London?”
He sucked air through his pipe, which was evidently empty. His tone became gruff. “You have quit Hartfield, then?”
“John…” Isabella warbled, her fluttering eyes skittering between the two of us.
“I have not,” I answered. “Hartfield is my home.”
“Thatis false,” John snapped.
“Papa made me promise to stay!” I had not wanted to start like this, but those words—the truth—burst out.
John plucked the empty pipe from his lips and jabbed the wet end at me. “How convenient. Your secret conversation at Mr. Woodhouse’s death bed.”
“It is not my fault you were not there. I wrote to you.” I bent to intersect Isabella’s fluttering, lowered gaze. “Bothof you.”
Isabella clutched her skirt. “I… I could not bear it. Being among all that sickness, and Papa so wretched. And what of the children? I could not forgive myself if it spread to them.”
“Papa’s malady was old age,” I said. “Children are not at risk.”
“You do not know that! Well… of courseagedoes not infect them, but what if he spread some horrible ague?”
My over-protective sister hoarded her precious children. I lived in terror of imagined disease. The irony was as subtle as a thrown stone. Still, there was a difference. I had not fled.
John adopted a lecturey, pompous tone. “The legal record of Mr. Woodhouse’s wishes is his will. I am the sole male relation, so Hartfield is my property. I would say you are living there on my good graces, but it is far past the required date of your departure, so in fact you areoccupyingit like”—his lips worked wetly as if collecting spittle—“like some loathsome debtor!”
“I have been mistress of Hartfield since I was twelve,” I said and was ashamed that my voice shook. I sucked in a breath and tried to recall my carefully scripted arguments.
He shook his head. “Emma.” He reached for my shoulder but missed when I stepped back. That drew a scowl. “You have a fortune. Thirty thousand pounds! Find yourself a new accommodation.”
“And what shall I do withmyfortune? Beg you to buy me a cottage in Highbury, then use the shillings you dole out to attend tea with Mrs. Bates?”
He snorted. “Buy ahusband. That is what other women do. You are two and twenty. You are lucky this happened while you are young. Imagine if your father had lived a few more years. At least you still have…” The stem of his pipe sketched circles at my body. “You might even bargain to keep five thousand for yourself.”
Being assigned the shelf life of a preserved peach was so infuriating that my purpose snapped clear. “I have not come to debate Hartfield. I have business.”
“Business, is it?” John thrust his chin out, then flicked his fingers at Isabella. Head hanging, she scurried from the room. John gave a false smile. “What is it, then?”
“First, I require funds. London is expensive.”
“Until you surrender Hartfield, I willnotsupply spending money. I already pay the servants. If you love the house so much, run back. They will feed you, at least.”
“Our family has appearances to maintain.Youhave a reputation to maintain. In London.”
He grunted and tapped the pipe stem against a stained tooth. “How much?”
“Funds for two weeks. Twenty pounds.”
“Ten,” he snapped. “Or nothing.”
“Very well.” I held out my hand. He frowned, so I added, “It will not protect your reputation while sitting in your pocket.”
He stalked to his desk, looked over his shoulder to ensure he had blocked my view, then hunched. Paper and coins rustled. He returned and dropped two five-pound notes into my gloved palm.
A success. My breath eased, and suddenly the rest seemed easy. “Second, I wish to alter the terms of my inheritance.”
He burst into laughter. “Do you never stop? I have just said no.”
