He bristled, clearly annoyed by her response. “She threatened to lodge a complaint against me to the bishop. She said she would ruin me as much as I had ruined her.” He chopped down his free hand. “Nonsense, of course. I have been the victim in all of this. I ask you, Mrs. Knightley, how didIruinher?”
“You married her,” she tersely replied.
“And it wasyourrefusal that sent me off to her. You should have accepted me when you had the chance.”
Emma goggled at him. “So this is my fault?”
His calculating expression sent a chill deep into her bones. “In one sense, I suppose it is.”
If not for the gun, she would have picked up the inkwell and thrown it straight at his evil, swelled head. Again, a small squeeze from George urged caution.
“I imagine that made you quite angry,” he said in a steady tone of remarkable self-control. “Such a report from your wife—combined with the general scandal surrounding the Sucklings—would have been most distressing for the bishop.”
Mr. Elton shifted his shoulder, wincing slightly. “Yes, of course,” he replied. “Such a complaint would have destroyed any opportunities for advancement. I might have even lost the living here in Highbury. I could not allow that to happen.”
“So you had to kill your wife,” said George.
“What choice did I have? Surely you can see that, Mr. Knightley.”
He was a monster—a murdering, deranged monster hiding behind the mask of a grieving widower and mild-mannered cleric. Unbelievably, he’d convinced himself that he was the victim, and that all his subsequent actions had been justified by the wrong he thought done to him.
“There is always a choice,” George sternly replied.
“Says the wealthiest man in the parish. Mr. Knightley, you have no idea what it’s like to be raised as a gentleman and yet always forced to scrape by. Always forced to toady to the likes of you. Or to a man like Cole—or Horace Suckling,” he said, his tone thick with contempt. “I had finally escaped that life of constant little humiliations, and I have no intention of going back to it.”
George scoffed. “The only place you’ll be going is to the gaol.”
Mr. Elton narrowed his gaze. “Do not forget I am holding the pistol, sir.”
“I would suggest thatyounot forget you have only one try with that pistol,” Emma snapped. “You cannot shoot both of us.”
For a moment, he appeared genuinely shocked. “Dear madam, I certainly have no intention of shooting you.”
“Well, I’m certainly not going to let you shoot my husband, either.”
Unfortunately, Mr. Elton took that as a challenge, since he began to move around to the side, as if trying for a better angle to take a shot. Emma attempted to wriggle out of George’s grasp, hoping to use her body to shield him.
Unfortunately, her overprotective husband was doing the exact opposite and trying to wrestle her behind him.
“Stop it, George,” she ordered.
“Yes, George, stop it.” Mr. Elton sarcastically echoed her. “Only a few more inches will do it.”
“For God’s sake, how do you think you’re going to get away with this?” she exclaimed.
She surreptitiously glanced toward the terrace doors, but the late afternoon sun reflected off the windows. Where was Larkins, and why was he waiting?
“Larkins can’t get a clear shot,” he whispered in her ear, reading her thoughts.
“What are you saying to her, Knightley?” snarled the vicar.
“He’s simply trying to reassure me, sir,” Emma hastily replied.
Mr. Elton waved the gun. “Mrs. Knightley, you will—”
“I’m curious,” she said, interrupting him in a desperate gambit. “Why did you blame Miss Bates for your wife’s murder when you clearly intended to level that accusation against Mr. Suckling?”
He blinked a few times, as if taken aback. “At the time it hadn’t occurred to me to frame Horace for the crime. And if you’ll recall, I never truly accused Miss Bates.”
