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She could see that Bess was very worried as well, but the housekeeper held her tongue. She'd been sent on an errand before three o'clock and had only just returned.
Emma forced her shoulders into a straight line. "I'll need the red dress pressed."
"Ma'am?"
"I'll be leaving at nine."
"But. . . I thought we were to begin packing."
"Yes, but slowly. We will go in a few days."
"But this trouble—"
"The trouble has been contained. We will be fine, Bess. The red gown please," she reminded. Bess left without another word, though she gave Emma one more disapproving glance as she stopped to retrieve the gown from the wardrobe. They'd never taken it out before. It was too red, too beautiful. It couldn't be worn more than once, but that wouldn't be a problem now.
Even if Matthew would simply go away, Lancaster had heard all the accusations. He'd watched her carefully as Matthew had ranted, spitting that she wasn't Lady Denmore, that she was Lord Denmore's niece. He'd sworn that Emma was a fraud, a virgin shaming herself by living as a widow. He'd raged that she belonged to him and had promised to be his wife.
Emma had watched in horror, she hadn't had to pretend at that, but she'd seen the dull glint of suspicion in Lancaster's eyes. The constable had been calm and fatherly through the entire incident, even when Matthew had begun his favorite speech. The one where Emma was Eve tempting them all with the apple. Or Jezebel. Or even Mary Magdalene, the redeemable harlot.
At those words, Lancaster's suspicion had disappeared in a blink, replaced by disgust. Emma had maintained her composure as the accusations flew. She'd maintained it as Lancaster and the kind old constable had wrestled Matthew into a police wagon. But when Lancaster had returned and reached for one of her shaking hands, Emma's composure, already frayed, had snapped, and she had turned and fled up the stairs to her room.
But she couldn't afford to indulge her fragile nerves with a long rest. Even an hour of missed play would be too much. She wanted—needed—one thousand more pounds, and not even her own soul could keep her from it.
Lancaster's sympathy would fade as the days passed, but suspicion had a way of holding tight. Friend or not, he could not ignore his own doubts. So Emma's stay in London was quickly nearing its end.
"Why?" Matthew wailed at the wall of his cell. "Why have You let her do this to me?"
He thought he heard a scratching beneath the bed and jerked his feet up onto the mattress. Wrapping his arms around his knees, he rocked back and forth and muttered prayer after prayer.
He was being persecuted, tortured by these sinful city people who'd lost all touch with the Lord. They could not see the devil even when she flaunted herself so gleefully in front of them.
Some rough voice shouted from far down the long hallway, and Matthew sobbed into his knees.
He could not live like this, locked into a little room like a thief. The rug that covered the stone floor was cheap and stained. The tea that had been set out was likely poisoned. The constable had insisted that Matthew tell where he'd left his possessions, but he'd told the man nothing. He knew that they meant to steal his valuables and sell his clothing on the street.
When the lock rattled, Matthew yelped and pulled the pile of blankets up to his chest. He'd likely be beaten and tortured now. Martyred for his beliefs. It occurred to him suddenly that this could all be the work of the church, those men seduced by money and power, the men who resisted glorious change. They might even have set Emily against him.
A cold gust of air foreshadowed the entrance of menace and set him trembling. "Mr. Bromley, I've brought that heating pan I promised."
Matthew peeked above the blankets. The old constable. He reminded Matthew of his father, which gave him the courage to sit up straight. "You've made a terrible mistake listening to that harlot. She is unnatural and deceptive. The snake in the garden."
The constable sighed. "You're not quite right, are you?"
"I am right and righteous! Can you not see her for the temptress she really is?"
"For the love of the Lord, boy. You've said you mean to marry her."
"I do. It is her only hope, and mine."
The man moved to leave and he would lock the door on this terrifying, horrid box. Matthew gingerly set his feet down to the cheap rug. "Listen. Please listen. You know, you must know that women are the source of all evil in this world. Set down to tempt us and lead us astray. Emily is without the guidance of a man. Her only hope is a firm hand and an iron will and I mean to provide both. Please. Help me save her from Satan. I will beat the devil out of her if I have to."
His father would have conceded by now, bowed beneath Matthew's greater wisdom. This man might look like Matthew's father, but the similarity ended there. His soft, lined face had grown stiff with anger.
"I have five daughters, Mr. Bromley. Five lovely daughters. And I pray to God that none of them ever meet a man like you."
The door slammed with an echoing boom. "My father is a magistrate!" Matthew screamed, but the lock shot into place like the clatter of a great metal insect.
He dared to lunge for the heating pan and tugged it beneath the bedclothes before he curled into a tight ball. Despair overwhelmed him, and he collapsed into the great, heaving sobs of a man betrayed by love and a wicked world.
