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Jacob’s own voice was diamond-hard. ‘And that would be…?’

‘Letting her go.’

It was a statement of such astonishing audacity that he couldn’t immediately answer, but it seemed one wasn’t required.

‘Back to her own people,’ Isabella clarified, as though he hadn’t understood. ‘Back to where she belongs.’

Perhaps emboldened even further by his silence, she carried on careening towards the edge of a cliff. ‘As I said, I think your commitment to her is admirable. You believe you have to protect her, and I suppose that extends to not wanting her punished for her crimes. If you can’t stand to see her hanged, the next best thing is to send her away, where she can’t do any more damage to our family name.’

‘Our family name?’

Rising anger managed to punch through the temporary gag of Jacob’s disbelief. Had she run mad, her pantomime grief segueing into something more dangerous?

‘Have you forgotten Meg is as much a Fernley as you are?’ he growled, only the presence of his guests in the next room preventing it from being anything louder. ‘Don’t speak to me as though you were really my sister. You only married my brother because you wanted a title and a fortune, and now you’re furious that Meg has both.’

‘She doesn’t deserve them!’

Letting her mask of pitifully unpersuasive concern for him slip, Isabella’s pitch rose shrilly. ‘She’s just some miserable creature that crawled out of the gutter and somehow into a rich man’s bed. The only thing your Meg is good for is the noose!’

Even Isabella seemed to realise she’d gone too far the moment she said it, but by then it was too late.

‘Don’t ever talk about my wife like that again.’

Jacob would have expected the rage that consumed him to feel hot. He ought to have felt as though he were on fire, burning from the inside, but instead the flames were like ice, freezing him to the spot as he was pushed past the limit of what he could endure.

‘I allowed you to stay here out of concern for my niece and goddaughter, on the basis that you remained civil. It’s unfortunate for everyone that you couldn’t keep up your end of the bargain.’

Each word was like a frosted blade, calm and cold enough to freeze even salted water. ‘Your malice now makes it impossible for you to be here any longer. I’ll lend you the best carriage to make the journey more tolerable for Celia, but you’re leaving as soon as the meal is over. I will not expose Meg to such hatred under her own roof.’

Astounded, his sister-in-law gasped. ‘But…but Celia can’t travel yet! Dr Pryce said…’

Unfortunately for Isabella, whatever she’d been planning to say next made no impression whatsoever. The sofa she was currently squirming on stood in front of a large window, and all Jacob’s attention was swiftly transferred to it as a movement outside caught his eye.

The glass afforded a clear view of Wellbourne House’s sweeping front drive, providing the perfect vantage point for him to watch Meg’s father limping towards the front door. Mr Wheeler’s face was set, drawn taut with anger and pain, and before he’d even lifted the brass knocker Jacob knew with an instinctive stab of apprehension that the other man wasn’t there to offer condolences.

Isabella was immediately disregarded. ‘Excuse me. I have another guest.’

Ignoring her screech for him to come back, he strode into the hall, waving away the servant who had appeared to answer his father-in-law’s loud rap. It was the knock of someone who meant business and Jacob took a second to ready himself before he opened the door.

‘Mr Wheeler, this is an unexpected pleasure. Will you come inside?’

‘No thank you, my lord. I’ll not stay long.’ The farmer looked up at him and there could be no mistaking his quiet determination. ‘I’m just here to fetch my daughter.’

Jacob’s heart sank like a stone. It was just as he’d thought: Meg’s father wouldn’t have dragged himself all the way from Hayworth just to take tea, not with a leg that was clearly causing him pain. He’d had a good reason to come to Wellbourne House, but that didn’t mean Jacob had to give in to it without a fight.

He stood aside. ‘Please come in, Mr Wheeler. It’s quite a walk from the village and I think you’re in some discomfort. If you wanted to sit for a while—’

‘I don’t want anything but Margaret, my lord,’ Meg’s father cut in curtly. ‘I told you I’d come for her if I heard she was being mistreated, and I take being accused of murder as proof of that. It’s in every tavern from here to Staffordshire that my girl somehow killed your brother, and I won’t have her among people that could spread such lies.’

Jacob opened his mouth to speak—although where he would have started, he didn’t know—but before he could he sensed a presence at his shoulder.

‘Pa!’

Meg slipped past him, heading for her father’s arms. ‘What are you doing here? You didn’t walk all the way with your poor leg?’

‘I’d walk ten times as far with no legs at all if it meant you were safe.’ Mr Wheeler had almost overbalanced from the enthusiasm of her greeting, but he righted himself to take hold of her shoulders. ‘Now, come on. Come with me; I’m going to take you home.’

‘Home?’